It is very dark, and I am running.

Forward first, then left, then right, except I do not know if left is actually left because the trees keep moving and my feet keep slipping in wet leaves. Branches scratch my face and neck and arms. One catches my sleeve and pulls me backward, and I make a sound I do not like, high and broken, but nobody hears it because the woods are too big.

I stop too fast, and my palms hit the trunk of a tree. The bark is scratchy, but it is also cool because it has rained three times since I came into the woods. Or maybe the same rain keeps starting over. I do not know. Time does not work correctly here.

Greg Simka pulled my pants down in the locker room after gym class.

That happened before the woods.

That is why there are woods.

He did it in front of all the football people, and my cheeks got very hot, and I just stood there because my brain forgot how to make my hands move. People laughed. Not good laughing. Bad laughing. Loud laughing. The kind that gets inside my ears and turns into pain.

Then someone grabbed the back of my underwear.

I was still standing there, silent and too still. My hands were not hands anymore. My legs were not legs. Everything in my body had gone far away except my skin.

Something soft and warm and mushy dropped inside my underwear and smeared against me. I made a sound, but I do not know what sound it was because the laughing got louder.

"Skid marks!" someone shouted.

Then another voice yelled, "Lemhurst's got the Hershey squirts!"

More laughing.

Candy ass.

Fucking freak.

Baby underwear.

I did not know it was a melted candy bar until later. At first, I only knew the feeling. Warm and soft and gross. Slime on my skin.

I hate baby underwear the most because it is not technically correct. It is not baby underwear. It is seamless brief-style underwear because boxer shorts are terrible on my skin sometimes. The elastic waistband brushes against me tight and hot, and the loose fabric bunches and moves and makes me want to peel my legs off. I told Mom that, so she found the seamless briefs, and they are better.

They are correct underwear.

They are not baby underwear.

But when Greg Simka pulled my pants down, nobody cared about correct. They cared about laughing. They cared about my face getting hot. They cared about the sound I did not mean to make.

So I ran.

I did not decide to run. My body decided first. Out of the locker room. Down the hallway. Through the side door by the gym. Past the baseball field. Past the fence where Coach says not to cut because there are ticks. Into the woods.

And now I am still here.

My hands press harder into the tree bark. It hurts, and that is good because pain is specific. Pain tells me where my hands are. Pain tells me I have hands.

I hear voices behind me.

Fucking weirdo.

Freak!

Candy ass.

Eric.

No.

Not that one.

The last voice is different.

The last voice is Paul.

But Paul is not in the woods. Paul is in his bed or in the hallway or at the kitchen table drinking coffee too early. Paul is not here with Greg Simka and the football people and the rain and the trees that keep changing places.

"Eric."

The tree disappears. My hands are not on bark anymore. They are twisted in my sheet.

"Kid."

I open my eyes.

It is still dark, but it is bedroom dark, not woods dark. Bedroom dark has shapes I know: my dresser, my desk, my laundry chair with three shirts on it because three shirts is not enough to be laundry yet, the line of light under my door, and the glow from my alarm clock.

Paul is crouched beside my bed, not touching me. He knows not to touch me when I wake up so scared. His hair is wet like he already showered, and he has a hoodie on, and he smells like toothpaste and coffee. His face is serious, but not Captain Lemhurst serious.

Brother serious.

I start to cry. Not a little bit. Not eyes-wet crying. My chest breaks open, and the sound comes out before I can stop it. I hate the sound. I hate that Paul hears it. I hate that my body is doing things without asking me first.

Because maybe I was there.

Maybe I was in the woods. Maybe I was lost and wet and running, and now I am not, but that does not mean it is finished. It does not mean people are not waiting somewhere to send me back to inpatient, where there are straps and voices that say calm down while they do things that make me less calm.

"I do not want to go to inpatient," I cry. "Please, Paul."

Paul's face changes, but he does not touch me. That is good. He wants to. I can tell because his hands move a little before stopping on his knees.

"No inpatient," he says.

I shake my head because words can be wrong. Adults say words that are wrong all the time. They say this will help, and it does not help. They say just relax, and I cannot relax. They say we are not going to hurt you, and then they put straps over my body.

"Please," I say again, and now I am stuttering on it. "P-please, Paul. I didn't do anything. I was asleep. I was only asleep."

"I know." His voice is low. "I know, kid."

"I d-did not run."

"You didn't run."

"I woke up here."

"You woke up here."

"In my room."

"In your room."

"With 'anka."

"With 'anka."

"And you."

"And me."

I grab the blanket harder until my fingers hurt. Paul stays crouched beside the bed, not touching, just waiting.

"Nobody is taking you anywhere," he says. "You had a nightmare. That's all this is."

"It did not feel like all."

"I know."

"It felt real."

"I know."

"I could feel the tree."

"I know, kid."

"You do not know."

"No," he says. "Not exactly. But I know you're here now."

I look at him. His eyes are steady, and his hands are still. He is not calling for Mom or Dad. He is not saying hospital or assessment or emergency. He is just here on the floor beside my bed, making his voice the same size as the room.

"You're home," he says. "You're in your room."

"I know."

"You were dreaming."

"I know."

"Okay."

I look at my hands. They are locked around 'anka so hard my fingers ache. 'anka is twisted through my knuckles, soft and old and not the color it used to be. One corner is tied around the bedpost because I sleep better when it cannot fall off the bed. I checked it before I went to sleep. I always check it.

One knot. Two pulls.

One knot. Two pulls.

It is still there.

I breathe, and Paul watches me breathe. He does not tell me to take a deep breath because I hate when people tell me how to breathe while I am already trying to breathe.

"Greg Simka?" he asks.

My stomach twists, and I nod once.

Paul's jaw moves. He does not say anything for a second, which means he is putting his anger somewhere I cannot see it. That is another thing he is good at. Dad's anger fills rooms. Mom's worry fills rooms. Paul can make his anger very small and put it in his pocket until later.

"I made coffee," he says.

"You do not make coffee. The machine makes coffee."

"I participated in making the coffee."

"That is more accurate."

His mouth twitches. This time, I know it is good laughing, even though he does not actually laugh.

"You hungry?" he asks.

I blink. My stomach is still tight from the dream, but underneath that there is another feeling.

Empty.

"Maybe."

"Millers?"

My eyes move to his face fast. "I have to go to school."

"Nope."

"That is not how school works."

"It is today."

I stare at him.

Paul smiles a little. "I talked Mom out of it."

"Out of school?"

"Out of sending you to school."

"Did she call the attendance office?"

"Yes."

"Did she say I was sick?"

"She said you had a family thing."

"That is vague."

"That is the point of saying family thing."

I do not know if I like that. Family thing can mean many things. It can mean someone died. It can mean someone is having a baby. It can mean Dad forgot about a dentist appointment and is pretending it is more important than it is.

Paul's smile changes, getting softer. "I'm taking you to breakfast. Then we can go to the zoo for a while."

"The zoo?"

"Yeah."

"It is a school day."

"I know."

"The zoo is better on a school day because there are fewer little kids."

"That was my thought."

"And the otters are out more in the morning."

"That was also my thought."

"You did not know that."

"I knew it because you told me six hundred times."

"That is different from knowing it yourself."

"Okay. You can know it for both of us."

I sit very still.

Breakfast. Zoo. No school. Paul.

The dream is still behind my ribs, but now there is something else in front of it. Not covering it all the way. Just standing there. I look down at 'anka and realize my fingers are not squeezing it as hard now.

"And later," Paul says, his mouth twitching like he is trying not to smile too much, "we can go to my house, and I'll make you lasagna for dinner."

My chest feels strange. "Your lasagna?"

"No, a stranger's lasagna. Of course my lasagna."

"Do not joke about that."

"My lasagna," he says.

"With the correct noodles?"

"With the correct noodles."

"And no ricotta lumps?"

"No ricotta lumps."

"And the edges get brown?"

"The edges get brown."

"Your house is an hour away."

"About that."

"That is a lot of driving."

"I like driving."

"I know."

"And you like my Jeep."

"I like the orange leather."

"I know."

I look at him. He is still crouched beside my bed with his hoodie sleeves pushed up and his hair damp from the shower. His keys are probably already in his pocket because Paul makes decisions before he tells anyone about them.

He planned this. He talked to Mom. He participated in making coffee. He is taking me to Millers and the zoo and then to his house in Canton, where the lasagna will smell the same as it always smells, and I will know what every bite is before I take it.

"You did all of that?" I ask.

"Yeah, kid."

"Why?"

His face goes serious, but not scary serious.

"Because yesterday was shitty," he says. "And this morning started shitty. And I'm home, so we're having a better day."

I swallow. "That is not a scientific plan."

"No," Paul says. "It's a brother plan."

I like that answer.

I like it a lot.

I sit up slowly. My shirt is stuck to my back with sweat, and I hate it. I pull it away from my skin. Paul notices but does not comment. He stands and turns toward my dresser.

"Blue hoodie?" he asks.

"CCM."

"Obviously CCM. I'm not new here."

"And the gray sweatpants. Not the black ones."

"The black ones are evil."

"The black ones have the seam."

"I remember the seam."

He opens the drawer and gets the right clothes. He puts them on the end of my bed, then steps back because he knows I do not like changing when people are too close, even if it is Paul.

I untie 'anka from the bedpost before I get up. Paul sees me do it, but he does not say anything.

I wrap it once around my wrist, then stop because I cannot take it to Millers. I am almost eighteen. I have a license. I have a truck. I am going to college soon. People in college do not bring baby blankets to breakfast.

I tie it back around the bedpost.

One knot. Two pulls.

One knot. Two pulls.

Paul waits by the door.

"Good?" he asks.

I touch the knot once more. "Good."

We go downstairs, and the noise reaches me before the kitchen does. The house is not quiet.

Mom is in the kitchen, talking to Beatrice, the twins' nanny, in the low voice adults use when they are discussing something they do not want children to understand, even though children can still hear the shape of it. She already made breakfast. The twins are at the table with cut-up waffles and little cups of berries, and Clara has syrup on her sleeve, which means she is going to be sticky for the rest of the day unless someone notices before it dries.

Annie looks up when we come in, and her eyes get big.

"ERIC!"

She is always yelling my name. Clara does too, but Annie does it more. Clara starts laughing.

"Eric, I want to go to the zoo too!" Annie whines.

"No, you can't come," I mutter, and somewhere behind me Paul starts laughing. "It is just brothers today."

Annie's face crumples.

"All right, Annie," Mom says. "It's all right. You can go to the zoo another time."

"I want brothers zoo," she wails.

"Annie's a crybaby! Annie's a crybaby!" Clara sings.

"Girls." Beatrice appears beside the table. "A few more bites, and then it's time for school."

"No school," Clara pouts.

Annie is still crying. It is the hiccuping kind of crying little kids do when they have cried too hard and cannot get their breathing back to normal.

Something inside me shifts, and I do not like it. This is my day with Paul. Annie has to go to school, and she can go to the zoo another day.

But her face is red, and her breath keeps catching.

I forget about Greg Simka and the woods for a second. I walk over and kneel beside her chair.

"We can go on the pond this weekend," I say. "Right now it is me and Paul. This weekend it can be you and me."

She looks at me with wet eyes and a tear-streaked face. "I wa-wanna go on the po-pond, Eric."

"I'll take you," I say. "That is the true thing."

Her breathing catches one more time, and then she reaches for me.

I do not always like when people reach without asking, but Annie is six, and she is crying, and I know what it feels like when your body will not stop doing something even though you want it to.

So I let her put her sticky arms around my neck for a few seconds. Then I pull back and wipe syrup from the sleeve of my hoodie with my thumb.

"You got me sticky."

"I'm sorry," she whispers.

"It is okay. But next time you have to ask before you hug me."

She nods very seriously. "Okay."

When I stand, Paul is watching me. He smiles like he just watched something he hoped would happen.

"Look who has rejoined civilization," he says to Mom, patting my shoulder once.

Mom looks at him and then at me. Her face is already doing three things at once: worried, tired, and trying very hard to hide both because Paul is home and this is supposed to be a happy day.

"Eric, don't get used to missing school, all right?"

"I am not used to it."

"I know." Her voice softens a little. "I'm just saying."

That is one of the things adults say when they are not just saying.

She looks back at Paul. "Are you leaving now?"

"Yeah," Paul says. "We'll be back tonight. I'll shoot for nine-thirty, but no promises."

Mom exhales through her nose. That means she does not like no promises.

"It's important that you get plenty of sleep tonight, Eric," she says. "You have a game tomorrow night, and you were on that pond in the middle of the night. I am not happy about that."

My stomach tightens, and I look at the floor.

The pond was dark, but the ice was bright because of the moon. That is backwards, but it is true. Sometimes dark places have bright things inside them.

Paul was the brightness last night.

His hand is still on my shoulder. He does not squeeze. He just leaves it there.

"But," Mom says, and now her voice is different, "I want you to have this time with Paul. Dad does too. So just—be mindful of the time when it gets dark, okay?"

I do not know if mindful means look at the clock or feel guilty.

Probably both.

"Okay," I say.

Paul gives my shoulder another slow pat and leaves his hand there for one more second before letting go.

"See?" he says. "Civilized."

Mom gives him a look, and Paul smiles like the look does not work on him. It works on everyone. It just works on Paul less.

Dad is already in his office, even though it is too early for offices.

Paul gets his keys from his pocket, and the Marine Corps keychain clicks against the side of the ceramic. I put on my shoes in the right order.

Left shoe. Right shoe. Left lace. Right lace.

Paul opens the front door, and the morning air comes in cold and clean.

The dream is still in me, but it is farther back now. It is not gone because things like that do not go gone so quickly, but there is a hallway between me and it.

Paul reaches over and straightens the hood of my sweatshirt where it has folded under my jacket.

"Now," he says. "You ready?"

"Yes."

He looks at me for half a second longer.

Then we walk out to the Jeep.