Canis Major
Page 69
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Russell’s sleep patterns were so scrambled and random, they really couldn’t be called "patterns" anymore. He maxed three to four hours of sleep a day—and that could fall anytime during a twenty-four hour period. Some days, he slept from nine to noon; others from seven in the evening to eleven at night. He started to think that maybe his parents had been right: maybe he had a brain tumor after all.
Then he’d shove the idea out of his mind. He was going through a phase—that’s all. And the sudden onslaughts of phantom pains in his hand and wrist? That was part of the phase, too. It was all part of a vast tapestry he couldn’t discern because he was standing too close to it. If he could somehow jump outside his body and examine himself the way a casual observer might, he’d see the problem right away. It was most likely a simple glitch with an even simpler fix. He’d probably slap his forehead upon discovering it.
But until that happened, he planned on—as they say in these parts—"keep on keepin’ on." Put one foot forward and pray the ground doesn’t collapse under your weight.
He wasn’t going insane, even though his parents were sure he was. They weren’t doctors so what the hell did they know? Russell was certain they were organizing some sort of intervention. At night, he heard whispers rising from their bedroom, but every time he put his ear to the wall, he’d only make out bits and pieces of their plans for him.
He would laugh if they followed through with it.
It was just too funny.
The things they don’t know…