It feels hot.

Not just because Charlie's wearing a suit, not just because it's the afternoon and the sun is out. No, it feels hot, in his stomach.

In his mind, in his hands, his legs, his neck.

He sits at his desk, tears streaming down his face. Memories flash through his mind in seconds, each one hitting him like sharp knives.

"Stop crying," he repeats to himself, covering his mouth. His breathing gets heavier and heavier until it feels like a solid weight on his chest.

He can't breathe.