Page 94 of We Drank the Dawn

“Coo-per,” I rasped.

Suddenly, he was at my side, his hand on my shoulder. He rolled me to my back and words poured out of him like a faucet on full blast. So fast and so many that I couldn’t grab onto a single one. His speech stuttered with panic and his teeth chattered so violently he could hardly talk. Maybe that’s why I couldn’t understand him.

My own confusion rolled away as I made heads and tails of the situation.

I’d interrupted his nightmare, and he attacked what he perceived as the threat—me.

“I’m sorry, Peter—I’m so sorry. I can’t believe—I don’t know why I did that—I wasn’t thinking⁠—”

“Coo-per,” I rasped again. “I’m—okay.”

He sniffed long and loud, and I realized he’d been crying. “I’m so sorry.”

“What the hell—happened?”

“I thought someone was attacking me…I had a dream.”

“Are you okay?”

He paused for a few long beats, like he didn’t know how to answer. Or like he couldn’t. Then the tent door zipped open and he darted out. His footsteps staggered away from the tent before a terrible retching sound filled the quiet night. Time ticked in slow motion as Cooper lost everything he’d had for dinner and then some.

He finally quit dry heaving and silence fell again.

All of what transpired couldn’t have lasted longer than a few seconds, but every moment of it would stretch in my memory like an infinity. I touched my neck and winced. I’d be sore for a while. Hopefully, there weren’t bruises because walking around with finger-shaped marks on my neck would draw some questions. And, for a reason I couldn't pinpoint yet, I didn’t want to tattle on Cooper.

I searched my soul for the most basic instinct of rage and indignance, but there wasn’t a drop of anger to be found. What just happened wasn’t normal. People didn’t attack other people in their sleep for kicks. I knew enough about the brain and trauma and my own bad dreams to understand that real life could put you on high-alert. That stress from the day was stored in the subconscious and could resurface in dreams. And when I thought about that, it was impossible to be angry.

All I felt was concern.

Outside the tent, intermittent sniffling started. And, even though I didn’t want to feel anything, my chest burned with empathy. My muscles tensed as I fought the urge to go to him. But what would I say? I didn’t want to pry. The only person I’d ever talked to about bad dreams was Sarah. Doing so with Cooper felt personal and intimate in all the wrong ways.

But the sniffling intensified and he threw up again.

He was not okay.

Unable to hush my need to comfort a suffering soul, I pulled a hoodie over my head, careful not to move my neck around too much, and slipped tennis shoes on my feet. “Cooper?”

“Over here.”

Following the sound of his voice, I walked to the picnic table. “You alright, man?”

His exhale was emotion-laden. “I’ll be alright.” Considering we were in the middle of a campground, the night was surprisingly quiet and Cooper’s heel dragging over the pebble gravel felt loud in comparison.

He scraped out words. “I am so sorry, Peter. I’ve had a lot of bad dreams, but that’s never happened before. I could’ve…I would’ve…” He couldn’t press the words out.

“But you didn’t.”

“I thought you were someone else.”

“I figured.”

A few beats of silence passed.

I hesitated. “Do you…need to talk about it?”

“I never talk about my dreams.” His voice was small again.

“Well, if you need to, you can. I don’t get many anymore, but when I used to, I’d always talk them out with Sarah. Or we’d just lay and talk about something completely unrelated to help me relax.”