The attacks had started before the tragedy. They came after his second foster home. Being uprooted so many times had taken its toll. In the quiet, he would grip his throat and gasp for breath, shaking and scared because he didn't understand. Over time, they continued. Worsened. He could usually feel the dread before it hit and found shelter in a closet or locked the door or pulled off the side of the road. When things were too much, he handled it. He had handled things by himself his entire life.
But as she anchored him, he felt the softness of her skin. Smelled the sweet scent of her shampoo in her closeness. The constriction in his throat eased. He took a deeper breath, counting to four. He exhaled the same. In and out. Over and over until the tension in his shoulders dropped. The throbbing in his temples faded. Beneath her grasp, he slowly shifted until he was kneeling instead, staring at the sand beneath them both.
"I'm sorry," he said, after a long moment of silence stretched between them. "I shouldn't have--" He didn't look at her. "I'm sorry."