“Sleepy boy,” she said. “This is not a dream. I’m really here. And I promise I’m not going anywhere.” Cyrus sat with this, trying to absorb her words, but he was unconvinced—for a person in a dream always thought they were real. Besides, he felt intoxicated by her closeness, and by some heaviness he could not explain. She was still touching him, though only slightly, her hand having retreated from his face to rest against his chest, under which his heart beat at a dangerous pace. Every shaking breath he took lifted his upper body, pressing her fingers against him anew, provoking in him a
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