I get a clumsy wave and pouty “don’t bug me, I’m sleeping” lip. “Livie,” I call again with an impatient bite in my tone.

A line of flaky, dry spit snakes down her chin. I don’t know how she can sleep like that, but she’s managed to, snoring softly for the past six hours. She grumbles and nuzzles her head against the window. “We’re here.” I give Livie’s arm a gentle shake. “Yeah,” I answer, my usual calm, vacant voice returning. She nods and shifts back to take her seat on the bus. Swallowing, I manage to croak out, “thank you.” She removes her hand with a gentle smile. My body curls into itself before I can stop the knee-jerk response to her touch. I turn to find a lady stooped in the aisle, concern on her deeply wrinkled face, her twisted, old fingers on my shoulder. “You were gaspin’ for air somethin’ fierce,” the voice says. It takes me a moment to find my bearings, to calm my hammering heart.

My eyes fly open to find a faded headrest in front of me. Tiny breaths, I hear my mom instruct, but I can’t do it. A lungs worth of cold water greets me in a rush, filling me inside. It all suddenly disappears and I’m falling backward, crashing into cold water, sinking further into the darkness, picking up speed as the weight of an ocean swallows me whole. I hear a loud snap, snap, snap, like someone pulling stage light levers light suddenly pours in from all angles, illuminating the car with blinding power. Like a person struggling for their dying breath. The voices get louder, the lights brighter. I open my mouth to scream, but I can’t find the energy. I can’t do anything except turn my head and listen to my heart pound like an anvil against my chest for what feels like an eternity. But it’s not moving … I try to squeeze it but I can’t will my muscles to flex. It’s big and strong and it envelops my fingers. Too dark to see Billy, but I know he’s there because I can feel his hand. The car door opposite her is closer than it’s supposed to be. I turn to my right to see Jenny’s silhouette, but her limbs look awkward and unnatural and she’s pressed up against me. I’m sure my mouth is moving, calling out their names … Mom?. What the hell does a tiny breath do? Why not a deep breath? Why ten? Why not three or five or twenty? I’d scream and she’d simply smile her little smile. She should have tattooed the damn mantra to her forehead. Love them.” Every time I screamed and stomped my feet in anger, or bawled my eyes out in frustration, or turned green with anxiety, she’d calmly recite those same words.

10 tiny breaths