Page 126 of We Drank the Dawn

On the fifth watch, moisture left a path to the pillow beneath my head. Like a jigsaw puzzle with two dozen missing pieces, I scrambled to weave the details together. What color was the dress she wore that night? Why couldn’t I remember? Were there tears in her eyes when she asked when or was she smiling? Did the heat in her eyes betray her truth—that she was barely hanging on, waiting for me? Or was she hiding?

Burgundy. It had to be burgundy.

Even if the dress color was hazy, I remembered with vivid accuracy unzipping it and watching it fall to the floor. And remembered every second afterward—Sarah clinging to my neck and her heady gasps each time my lips touched her skin. My neck prickled with heat, the bunkhouse suddenly hot.

For long moments, I laid there, sick with desire for her.

What if, starved of inspiration, my imagination stopped working? Would I be able to close my eyes and experience her all over again? What would I do if my only safe place—sighted memories—were as terrifying as the rest of the world?

Nothing could make me panic faster.

No. No what ifs.

I tried to change the course in my mind, steering myself back to what I could do. I could listen to her voice—always. Through videos. Through her voicemail. And face-to-face if we got the chance. I could write my memories down so I didn’t forget—honestly, I should’ve already been doing that. I could experience the people I loved in a different way, even if it didn’t seem as good as before. Eventually, it would be normal to me. I could take her on some adventures. Granted, she’d have to do the driving, but we could hike some trails maybe or do some small things, at least.

“When can we have one?”

I shook my head, still not convinced I could give her that. Still not convinced that I would be the partner and father I needed to be.

Could I? I didn’t know.

I sniffled, lifting the bedsheet and dragging it across my damp face.

For over an hour I scrolled back, listening to the memories we’d made, stopping to loop her laughter and the way she said my name when she scolded me with a squeal. One video she was laughing so hard, and a sound sort of like a hand slapping flesh interrupted her squeals. “I’m going to pee. Put me down, Peter! Put me down!”

I wracked my brain for a long time, trying to remember that one. Where were we? Was I carrying her somewhere? We sounded so happy, both of us laughing together, the phone creaking and popping like we had shifting hands all over the mouth piece. But I couldn’t place the circumstances. And the farther back I scrolled, the hazier each audio memory became.

A glutton for her, I picked up the phone and called again, knowing she wouldn’t answer. Even if I wasn’t blocked, it was almost midnight and she got up early for work. I blinked up at the ceiling, considering all my missed opportunities as it rang. I could’ve gotten up with her, kissed her forehead before she left. Or made her pot of coffee. A blind husband could do that—set her coffee and fill her favorite thermos before she walked out the door.

A sick feeling wound through my torso as her words drifted through the plastic in my ears.

“Hey, you’ve reached Sarah Thompson…”

All too soon, the greeting led to a beep.

A loud thump made me jump upright on my bunk, the wavy mop on my head catching peaks on the stomped ceiling. Swiping a hand over my hair, I held my breath and pulled my airpods out, waiting for the sound again.

Thump.

I turned my ear toward Cooper’s bunk, trying to hear above his white noise machine. Sure enough, his heavy breaths and low whimper penetrated the silent bunkhouse. My heart twisted with worry. Several moments went by as I sat and listened, wondering if he was stuck in a dream or moving into peaceful sleep.

His sudden, panicked thrashing answered my question.

Throwing the blanket off my body, I skipped climbing down the rungs and heaved myself to the ground, the floor joists groaning in protest. Crossing the room with a few quick strides, I reached up and found Cooper’s ankle, giving it a squeeze.

I kept my voice low. “Hey, Cooper.”

He mumbled something I couldn’t understand.

“Coop, come on. You’re dreaming.”

With a start, he jerked up on his bed, his rough breaths loud and wheezing. The wet rattle in his exhales gave his emotions away—he’d been crying.

My hair stood on the back of my neck, and I wasn’t sure why.

“Everything’s okay,” I whispered. “Try to breathe.”

Taking my advice, he forced his breaths to come rhythmically—still too fast, too shallow. So strained they sounded like a rubber band on the verge of snapping. Then covers whipped and Cooper hauled himself off the side of the bed and toward the bunkhouse door.