I sat up in bed, legs tangled in the sheets, my breathing labored and erratic. A hand touched my arm, and I flinched away.
“Sweetheart?”
“Sorry,” I whispered, hoarse. He sat up beside me in the darkness, and I moved to sit between his outstretched legs. His rough hands found my bare skin: he traced my scapulae, my ribcage, my vertebrae. I counted each of the seven cervical vertebrae-the same as most mammals-as his hands moved up my neck.
“Did you know that two-toed sloths and manatees only have six cervical vertebrae? And three-toed sloths have nine?”
“Um…what?” I laughed quietly; of course he didn’t understand. He’d picked up some new vocabulary words from my spontaneous spouting of facts from anatomy lab. Clearly this wasn’t something I’d mentioned yet. His hands had reached the base of my spine and began an upward path.
“Put your hands on my neck again. Feel the vertebral bones there?” He made a soft noise of assent. “Cervical vertebrae. Most mammals only have seven. Giraffes do, too. Theirs are just…bigger.” I smiled.
“Except manatees and sloths. Pretty cool. Any particular reason for the midnight anatomy lesson?”
“It keeps my mind off the nightmares.”
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