Distorted Reality

DAKOTA

Opening my eyes to find that Dashiell isn't in bed with me, I sit up and glance at the digital clock on the nightstand. It reads: 6:23 a.m.

Yawning, I get out of bed and slip on my flip-flops.

"Dash?" I call out as I head out of the bedroom, rubbing one of my eyes.

"I wonder where he is," I mumble, letting out another yawn.

"Dash?"

I raise a brow at the sight of Dashiell, who's sitting on the floor along the hallway, a glass of orange juice in his hand. He looks dazed.

I hurry towards him, crouching beside him when I get to him.

"Hey," I say, touching his bare upper arm. I flinch when I realize how cold his skin is.

"What's wrong?" I ask, sitting on the floor beside him with my arms wrapped around him, to warm him up. When he still doesn't say anything, my stomach churns with anxiety. He'd been completely fine last night. Did something happen while I was asleep? I can't help but wonder.

"Dash? What are you looking at?" I ask. Slowly, he lowers his drink to the floor