The room was dark but for the glow of the clock radio, which said 2:17. He was chilled but pushed off the blanket and sat up. He planted his feet on the rug and spit more sand. It peppered his skin and filled his scalp. He got up and flicked on the lamp, then pulled up the cover, expecting the sheet to be covered with beach sand. It wasn’t. And he had spit only air. But his head was swimming, and his heart was jogging. He flopped back down, feeling cold and clammy. After several minutes, his head stopped whirling and he got up, slipped on a sweatshirt, and stepped out of his room. The landing at the top of the stairs was still dark but for the night-light that had burned since he and his brother were kids. He gently opened the door to his mother’s room. She was sleeping soundly. He closed the door and walked downstairs, steadying himself on the banister. Inside he was trembling. He padded into the kitchen, flicked on a light, poured himself a glass of milk, and warmed it in the micro—something his father had taught him when he couldn’t sleep.
