I dreamed

The dugong is swimming through the hallway.

It moves slow, heavy, pushing against the drywall like it’s wading through thick mud. I’m standing on the rug, watching it breach the ceiling fan. The air in here is thick, 61% humidity, smelling of wet earth and old rain. The fan blades tick against the plastic, a metronome for its breathing.

It looks up at me. Not with eyes, really, but with a kind of damp, grey patience. I want to tell it that the road to recovery is longer than it knows, that the water in this house is only 22.1 degrees and doesn’t support life. It doesn’t care. It just turns, a slow arc, and crashes into the bedroom door. The wood splinters, but there’s no sound. Just the pressure, 1028.9, pressing down on my chest.

It’s still here.