Desperate, Alex retreated to the bathroom. He stood under the shower, letting the scalding water beat down on his head. The roar of the water was a dull, percussive thud, but it did nothing to clear the clogged feeling. He tried the old trick: pinching his nose and gently blowing. A tiny, pathetic squeak. Nothing.
The worst moment came when his son, Leo, burst into the room. "Daddy! I drew a rocket ship!"
He didn't hear every syllable perfectly, but he heard the melody of her voice, the shape of her love. It was enough. He hugged her tighter, the stuffiness in his ears suddenly feeling less like a wall and more like a temporary, annoying curtain. A curtain that, with the next dose of decongestant and a good night's sleep, would eventually be drawn back.
His wife, Sarah, came in with a cup of tea. He saw her lips move, forming familiar shapes—"Good morning," "How are you feeling?"—but the sound arrived as if from the end of a long, tiled hallway. Words were mashed together, consonants lost, vowels warped. The gentle clink of the mug on the bedside table sounded like a dropped hammer.
"I can't hear anything," he mumbled into her neck. "It's awful. Leo thinks I'm ignoring him."
Alex saw the flash of red construction paper. He saw the enthusiastic, slightly crooked drawing of a triangle with fire coming out the bottom. He saw his son's proud, expectant face. But the boy's voice was a tiny, faraway squeak, like a mouse on a microphone.
Leo repeated himself, his little face crumpling with confusion. Alex leaned closer, tilting his good ear—was there a good one?—toward his son. He still couldn't make it out. The gap between them, usually filled with laughter and silly noises, was now a chasm of static.
Desperate, Alex retreated to the bathroom. He stood under the shower, letting the scalding water beat down on his head. The roar of the water was a dull, percussive thud, but it did nothing to clear the clogged feeling. He tried the old trick: pinching his nose and gently blowing. A tiny, pathetic squeak. Nothing.
The worst moment came when his son, Leo, burst into the room. "Daddy! I drew a rocket ship!" ears stuffy from cold
He didn't hear every syllable perfectly, but he heard the melody of her voice, the shape of her love. It was enough. He hugged her tighter, the stuffiness in his ears suddenly feeling less like a wall and more like a temporary, annoying curtain. A curtain that, with the next dose of decongestant and a good night's sleep, would eventually be drawn back. Desperate, Alex retreated to the bathroom
His wife, Sarah, came in with a cup of tea. He saw her lips move, forming familiar shapes—"Good morning," "How are you feeling?"—but the sound arrived as if from the end of a long, tiled hallway. Words were mashed together, consonants lost, vowels warped. The gentle clink of the mug on the bedside table sounded like a dropped hammer. He tried the old trick: pinching his nose and gently blowing
"I can't hear anything," he mumbled into her neck. "It's awful. Leo thinks I'm ignoring him."
Alex saw the flash of red construction paper. He saw the enthusiastic, slightly crooked drawing of a triangle with fire coming out the bottom. He saw his son's proud, expectant face. But the boy's voice was a tiny, faraway squeak, like a mouse on a microphone.
Leo repeated himself, his little face crumpling with confusion. Alex leaned closer, tilting his good ear—was there a good one?—toward his son. He still couldn't make it out. The gap between them, usually filled with laughter and silly noises, was now a chasm of static.
