[OOM: Rm 132]

He sleeps peacefully and does not dream. One doesn't really have to dream when they have the woman of their in their arms, a soft pillow under their head, all the while being surrounded 400 thread count Egyptian Cotton sheets. Sometimes it's good to be the ex-turtle.

At first there is nothing, but then there is smell.
Sweat. Stale Beer. Smoke.

Then sound.
Laughing. Talking. Swearing.

And touch.
Cold at first, but warming with continued touch.

Finally there is what feels like tears, wet and filled with grief. Like a child crawling into bed after a nightmare.
It weeps and curls into a ball at the back of his mind.
That's when the wailing begins.

Mike sits bold upright in bed. It's not Mel, he's checked. She doesn't stir. He looks around the room, allowing his other senses to reach out while his eyes adjust to the lack of light. There's no one there...but there is someone there, and he knows it. He feels it, even if he can't see it or hear it.

He swallows hard as realization dawns.

".....oh boy."