Thin Air
Chapter 1

It had to be a dream. Even as the couple danced, the edges blurred, softened. The whole thing was too peaceful, too perfect -- the kind of dream you can't wake from when you first start trying. A happy couple danced on the edge of a cliff, mountains and rivers spilling lavishly below them. There were lights that may have sharpened into K-Mart, Wal-Mart, the gas station, mundane figures once the sun came up, but in the happy pre-dawn darkness they were sparkling like something magic.

The couple gazed into each other's eyes. Kissed. The man covered his wife's hands lovingly with his own, delighting in her warmth and softness. Their children played nearby, a safe distance from the precipice, deeply engaged in conversation -- something about the ethical considerations of spending money you found on the sidewalk. Laughter punctuated their serious talk as the little one chimed in and the older ones, united briefly in peace, enjoyed their baby sister's point of view. Smart girls, healthy girls with wit and intelligence, just like their mother. Joe gazed into Allison's eyes and smiled serenely.

Everything would be perfect if she would just stop whacking him in the shoulder.

"There's no music, honey," he said easily, spinning her, then pulling her in close. "You don't have to help me keep the beat."

WHACK. WHACK. His wife didn't answer and suddenly she wouldn't look at him. The children had stopped laughing. They were making a horrible racket somewhere nearby ...

WHACK!

Joe tried to gaze out across the scenery, but all he saw were tangled blankets and the alarm clock blinking like the power had gone out.

"Damn," he muttered, wrenched at last from the perfect dream. "I wouldn't have minded staying in that one a while, darlin'. I mean, we had our clothes on, so on a scale of one to ten, it couldn't have been higher than an eight. Still." He sighed a long sigh. "There was something really nice about it."

WHACK!

Joe blinked. "Allison, what --" he turned sharply toward his wife, who had been whacking him repeatedly on the shoulder for the last five minutes. He was all set to fuss at her for destroying his perfect dream when he laid eyes on her. Immediately the dream was gone. Allison lay tensely against the pillows, hands gripping at her throat. Her eyes were wide and frightened, focused on a point in the thin air above her.

"Allison!" He sat up abruptly, panic biting at his heart. The too-familiar sensation made him clumsy, made him fumble as he shoved back the covers. His hands covered Allison's in a sick skewed version of the dream he'd just had. "Al, what -- Allison! Breathe!"

Her eyes narrowed a little. He read, Don't you think I would if I could?

It seemed to him that she was choking herself, but when he pulled her hands away, the skin of her hands cold and papery under his touch, he found that the handprint bruises forming on her neck were bigger than his wife's hands. His shocked mind was working too slowly. There were hands there still, he realized. Hands that didn't belong to his wife.

"Let go!" His own hands dusted at her throat, shoving at some invisible danger. Eyes roaming the empty air above her, searching for a target. "Let go of my wife!"

Her eyes were wide again, panicking, burning into his, then rolling away in fear. Nothing to read there now but Help me, Joe! Help me breathe!

His panicked mind whirled backward to his inadequate first-aid training, years ago. "Choking victim," he muttered. "What do you do for a choking victim? Check for obstructions? Listen for breathing?" Useless when the obstruction was a ghostly grip, when the breathing sounds were replaced by gagging desperation. He snatched her from the bed, hoping to lift her from whatever death grip held her. He might have picked up the ghost along with her, for all the good it did. "Let go of my wife!"

"Mom? Mom, I had a d -- what --"

Joe spun with his wife in his arms, hope and dread etched in equal parts in his heart. Ariel stood in the doorway, gripping the molding with clenching fingers. Briefly Joe was reminded of the Ariel in his dream, laughing, playing with her sisters. Happy.

"Dad, who is that? Dad, make him stop!" Tears in her voice but not in her eyes. Absurdly it struck him then, of all times, how grown-up his eldest was getting.

"I can't see him." He said it abruptly, almost harshly. She had to understand that she was the only one who could help right now. "Ariel, I need your help. I can't see him."

She grew an inch or two in front of his eyes, and her own eyes narrowed. "Why are you doing this?" She caught on quicker than he would have expected and turned all her attention to the intruder in the room. A pause. Then, much more quietly, harshness in her own voice. "Well, I don't care what you -- fine -- Daddy, he says he wants his son."

"Well, why should we care what he -- Where's his son?" Changed the question mid-course, realizing the absurdity of the first. It didn't matter why, it only mattered how to stop him.

"He says his son is gone from the house because of Mom."

"I don't understand. What house?" In the agonizing moments it took for Joe to spit out his question, Allison stopped moving. Her eyes closed, her gasping grew less desperate as she lost the ability to fight the grip that held her. "Let go of her," he pleaded, somewhere between desperation and anger. "Let go and we can talk about this."

Ariel stepped closer and fixed her gaze on some point just between Allison and Joe. The confidence that she exuded, he had previously only seen from her mother. "Let go now or I won't help you find your son. If you hurt my mother, neither one of us will help you."

Seconds ticked by in agony and nobody moved. Then all at once, Allison gasped in a breath. Joe eased her onto the bed, stroking her hair, massaging her neck. "Al? Just breathe, honey. Just breathe." Anger and relief and panic all mixed up in his voice, in his head. His wife was breathing, but she wasn't moving. Her eyes stayed closed. "Al?"

"Go away." Ariel was still talking behind him. "When Mommy's better we'll help you. Go away now or we won't."

Joe could only assume his daughter's request had been fulfilled, because an instant later she appeared beside him at the bed.

"Is she breathing, Daddy?"

Sort of, he thought, crinkling his forehead in concern. He was only a rocket scientist; didn't know enough about the human body, about health. He felt like he was wearing a giant dunce cap with "Rocket Scientist" stamped on it, as useless as his knowledge was today.

"Ariel, honey, call 9-1-1," he said. "I'll stay with Mommy. Ariel --"

She was halfway to the phone, turned, hopeful.

"You did really good, honey. Mom's going to be so proud of you."

Brief, watery smile. For a moment, she looked younger, the way he wished she could stay. Then she was busy placing the awful call. Behind her Joe cradled his wife as he had in the dream, rocked her and stroked her as they balanced on a precipice. Her hands were growing warm, again, beneath his own. This time, though, no one was laughing.