making something out of everything
I woke up panting, horrified at the nightmare. I grabbed Tyler’s 20 years-post-quarterback-yet-still-weirdly-muscular shoulders and told him I was on death row, for a heinous crime I did not commit.
He pulled me in for a hug, murmuring, “You won’t have to worry about that for a long, long time.”
“WHAT?!” I panic-whispered. “What do you mean, ‘a long tim…