Understanding The Signs

Now I understood. Understood the signs, understood what happened and understood we cannot stop our world unfolding as it should.
Clint raised his head off his arm. Tears dripped onto his dusty shirtsleeve, making black scars down the grey cotton.
His eyes begged me, huge tears pooling and dripping, though he wasn't sobbing. They held mine demanding I say: "It was a dream. Nothing more."
But I couldn't say any such thing.
All I could do was cradle his head in my lap, rock back and forth, and weep quietly, as if that would bring Mr Bowen back to life.