Page 93 of We Drank the Dawn

Tag

It’s a very big deal.

Maybe you can do another short trip soon?

Me

That would be awesome.

Tag

It really would. Good night Coop

I drifted to sleep with a smile on my face.

THIRTY-TWO

Peter

Ishot to a sitting position, drawing a startled breath as I battled for my bearings. Confusion lingered, cool damp air nipped at my shirtless torso, and a musty scent filled my awareness. But a low moan several feet away pulled my brain into the moment.

Tent. Cooper.

That was Cooper moaning.

Reassured all was well, I eased back onto the ground, tugging the sleeping bag up and over my shoulders. My breaths came erratic and shallow, adrenaline burning in my veins. Cooper’s moaning must’ve startled me, but I wasn’t sure why.

Just as I drifted back to sleep, Cooper said, “Stop it. No.” He said it plain as day—with the clarity of someone who just woke up and had a cup of coffee. I frowned, confused on whether he was talking to me.

“Cooper?” I whispered, my voice husky with sleep.

He didn’t respond.

A few seconds later, he moaned again, the sound devolving into a prolonged whimper. When he spoke this time, his voice was small. “Please stop. Please.”

Frozen, I laid there, listening.

Snapping fabric filled the silence and the swish-swish of the nylon sleeping bag came faster and louder as I realized he was thrashing or flailing around or something. When he whimpered again, chills erupted over my skin and my mouth went dry. If I wasn’t one hundred percent certain we were the only two people in the tent, I would’ve bet money that sound came from a child.

Cooper made a choking sound that ended in a cry. And before I could stop myself, I tossed the sleeping bag aside and called his name. “Cooper.”

Still in the throes of his dream, he didn’t respond.

“Cooper!” I moved toward him, crawling across the few feet of open tent between our sleeping bags. Reaching out to where I believed his shoulder would be, my fingers found his clammy skin and I squeezed. The moment I touched him, Cooper bolted upright and the crying stopped as if someone had flipped a switch. Before I could predict his movement, his body collided into mine with the force of a full speed freight train.

In the blink of an eye, Cooper had knocked me onto the bare canvas floor of the tent, sat on my chest, and grabbed my throat. I gasped as oxygen got trapped in my lungs and his fingers adjusted to get a better hold. Spittle hit my face as he hissed, “Touch me again and I will kill you. I will kill you.”

Clawing at his hands and arms, I tried to say his name but no sound rose from my lips.

Panic sliced through my chest as he bared down, transferring the weight of his body into his hands. If I didn’t act right now, I would die.

My kicking legs were useless against him so I reared my fists as far back as the ground would allow and started punching. Eyes, mouth, cheeks. Anywhere. Everywhere.

One well delivered punch to the neck stunned him enough that he loosened his grip, and I pushed him off of me.

A long wheezing inhale carted oxygen into my starving lungs. My throat spasmed as I coughed, and for a few long moments I thought of nothing but pulling air through my aching trachea—inhaling and exhaling. And trying not to crap my pants.

He must’ve realized where he was and what he’d just done, because a sharp gasp that wasn’t my own filled the air. “What did I do?” he mumbled, the words laced with bone-chilling terror. “What did I just do?”