“Let me grab my laptop.”
“Fucking now, man!”
“Dawson.”
As he made his way up the unforgiving incline, time and again he lost his footing in the loose sand and rock. It seemed an endless climb. Hawkins became increasingly impatient, urging him to hurry. He was out of breath by the time he reached the ridge. Sweat was dripping into his eyes, stinging them. He tried to wipe it away, but the salty film remained, so it was through blurred vision that he saw Hawkins grinning at him.
Then—“No!”
“Dawson.”
As always the noise ricocheting inside his skull woke him. He sat bolt upright, drenched in sweat, futilely trying to wipe it from his eyes with a hand that was bathed in the brine of his own terror, his mouth still open around the scream that invariably came too late.
This was like every other time he was jolted out of the nightmare, except now Amelia was here, her hand resting on his shoulder, and he realized that she’d been here for a while, her voice mingling with that of the smiling young soldier from rural North Dakota.
Dawson drew up his knees and placed his elbows on them, holding his head in his hands as he gasped for breath. The terror gradually receded, but not the humiliation, made even worse when Amelia sat down on the edge of the bed. He was as sharply aware of her pity as he was of her nearness.
“You were calling out.”
“Sorry I woke you. Go back to bed.”
/> She removed her hand from his shoulder, but stayed. Knowing what a frightful and pathetic sight he must be, he shook back his hair and used the hem of the sheet bunched around his waist to wipe the sweat off his face, neck, and chest.
She asked, “Is it always the same dream?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want to—”
“No.”
“It might help if you—”
“I’m not going to talk about it.”
“Not with me or not with anyone?”
“Anyone.”
“No one would think less of you if—”
“I would.”
“You’ll never get rid of it until—”
“I’ll work it out, okay?”
“How?”
“Leave me alone.”
“To do what? Take more pills?”
“Maybe.”
“You have a problem, Dawson.”
“Oh yeah?”