Your lips touch as you shape the letter B. A tiny, insignificant little puff of breath continues the flow, and turns into the letter O. Then, your tongue presses the back of your teeth and the very front part of the roof of your mouth; an N. E and S flow together to make a little whisper of an S. Your word is only a whisper, a whisper of fear and pain.             Is this all a dream? You wonder, as you gaze around at the bone yard that surrounds you. Children’s bones, men’s bones, women’s bones. Their clothes are still laid across the meatless bodies, as if not to be indecent.             As if they never died.             Is this all a nightmare? You wonder, as your foot brushes against a child’s skull. You snatch the foot away and step further into the graveyard, trying to avoid them, and the houses that had been burned to the ground by the enemy. Your chest burns from the fumes.             Are you supposed to breathe in dreams? You wonder, as you press a hand to your searing throat. You let out a cough that spits blood.             Can I make it anymore? You wonder, as you see the dress of your dearest friend, still draped around her shoulders as if it never left. Not too far away, you see the ashes that once built your family’s bakery. You rush to where three skeletons lay, the bones of your father, mother and brother. You fall to your knees, stroke their faces, wishing desperately for your brother to laugh with you, for your mother to smooth your reckless lock of hair, for your father to give you a cupcake and laugh as you smothered your mouth in the icing.             Can you cry in a dream?