Page 62 of Swerve
?Shaun Hick
I CAN’T SLEEP.
After a revolving effort of staring at the ceiling, restacking my pillows, and rolling from one side of the bed to the other, I finally give up and vault off the mattress to head for the kitchen.
I open the bedroom door quietly, hoping the click of the lock doesn’t wake the detective sleeping on my couch. I close the door behind me so that Pounce doesn’t come out, and then tiptoe my way through the living room and into the kitchen.
I crack the refrigerator so that the light doesn’t shine into the living room.
I’m about to reach for a yogurt when I hear, “Not much of a night for sleeping, huh?”
I jerk up, cracking my head on the top of the refrigerator. “Ow!”
The yowl that comes out of me surprises me as much as it does him.
He steps forward and presses two fingers to the place on my scalp. “That’s gonna be a goose egg.”
His touch surprises me, stuns me, actually. I take a step back, reaching my own hand up to press the sore spot. “Yeah.”
He picks up a dishtowel from the kitchen counter and then opens the freezer and pulls out some ice, wrapping the towel around it. He walks over and holds it up in question.
I nod, wincing a little as he tentatively presses the ice to the knot. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“I was trying not to wake you.”
“I wasn’t doing much sleeping.” Something in his voice makes me look up. “Bad dreams?”
He shrugs. “I’m used to it. I have something at home that I take most nights.”
“Can you sleep without it?”
“Not very well.”
“That’s miserable.”
He shrugs. “One of the things I brought back from Afghanistan.”
“PTSD?”
He studies me for a moment, as if weighing how to answer. “That’s what they say.”
I consider this before answering with, “I’ve worked with some soldiers who are dealing with it. It’s way more common than anyone would think.”
“Apparently.”
“I’ve wondered why that is.”
“That soldiers come back with it or people are surprised by it?”
“Both, I guess.” I realize that I must sound as if I am taking the realities of war lightly. “That didn’t come out right.”
He stares at me for a few long seconds, glancing off when he finally says, “Maybe it used to be that soldiers didn’t survive the horrible stuff as much as they do now. Or maybe they came home and put it away better than we modern soldiers seem to be able to.”
“Your training—”
“Prepares you for the battle. Just not the aftermath.”
I lean against the kitchen counter, weighing my next question. “Do you ever regret being a soldier?”
