A terminally ill youth dreams for three minutes before dying.
Something fuzzy touched his face, just above the bridge of his nose. Benjamin strained his gaze upward, but it leapt farther up his forehead. Alarmed, he swatted his face with his hands, though once they touched the culprit, he froze. Eyebrows. His fingers moved along them as he scrunched them together and moved them apart, and then he felt around the rest of his head. There was hair where his smooth scalp should be, and lots of it. It was curly, just like he thought it would be, and thick, so thick that he feared his small hands might get lost in it. But he twirled and tangled his fingers in it, all the while tilting his head back so he might catch a glimpse of the locks he thought might be brown.
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