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It always seems to start in his hands.
There's just the barest hint of a tingle beneath his skin, fingertips overly tender to the touch when he twists his fingers together. Bradley tries to quell the thrum of energy before it spreads, massaging each finger from knuckle to tip like he could force the anxiety out beneath his bitten-short nails.
It doesn't help. It never helps. The tension moves inward, not outward, until it's tight around his ribs and his thighs are prickling with that same nervous pulse.
Don't fight it, something's wrong, take a breath, something's wrong.
There's an ache in his chest by the time he gives up and gives in, closing his eyes so tightly that there's a dull pain between his brows. Bradley reminds himself to let it roll through him — this isn't the first time it's happened and it surely won't be the last. Things will settle. He just needs to take it one step at a time.
Talk to me, Mom.
Bradley forces his eyes open and stares up at the sky, breath ragged as he inhales again. Tries to count the stars above his head the way his momma taught him. Each time tears blur his vision, he swipes them away and starts counting again from one.
That's it, baby. It hurts. I know. It hurts.
Gradually, his vision clears. His pulse settles. He exhales and feels his shoulders drop with the sudden release of adrenaline.
Bradley looks down at his hands in his lap. Watches them tremble with the aftershocks. He can still feel that damn pins and needles sensation in his thighs, but it's fading.
He slides both hands beneath his legs to hide the tremor. Inhales. Exhales.
Waits for it all to inevitably start again.