My dead grow quiet in my chest, content now that I’ve brought them back to a place they know. The scientists would say this is all expected, that the pressure in my chest was just the toll traversing took on my most concentrated bones, and that my dreams are the same as the hallucinations in the hatch because they are both just the mind trying to process what it doesn’t understand. And there is a world where they are right, and a world where they are wrong, and I don’t need to know which this is.
