“I open my eyes and stare at the wall. I can hear my breathing, like a dog that needs water. My shadow flickers against the wall, and I shake my head, not knowing if I’m awake or asleep, not knowing what’s real yet, in that in-between time. My seven-year-old body is shivering. Then I remember the dream. Somebody’s chasing me. Somebody’s always chasing me, scary men in dark coats. They’re always trying to get me. Sometimes I can run, but most of the time I can only move in slow motion or can’t run at all. Frozen. I hate those dreams. I start crying, and I say the word I always say when I’m scared: “Mom.” I cry it several times, over and over, like a mantra. I grab my knees to my chest and start to rock back and forth, crying “Mom, Mom,” until I hear her at my door. She walks over to my bed, sits down at the edge, and does what she does so well - just holds me.”
