Page 53 of The Prodigal

He doesn’t bring his own sheets because he’s a diva. He brings them because he sleeps on the floor in a closet where he’s…safe.

Easing the door shut, I lower to the floor and fight back hot tears.

Maybe I’m reading way too much into this situation. Maybe Remington just wanted to watch porn or something in privacy.

But my heart knows.

I’ve seen what broken looks like.

I’ve called out for a savior.

I’ve drowned in the pain until I couldn’t breathe.

Broken people are most vulnerable when we sleep.

When the walls we’ve built come down without our approval.

When we search for control in a mind that is no longer ours to control.

It’s in those dark hours that all we can do is find shelter and weather the storm until the sun rises.

Remington curled into himself, pleading for mercy on the floor of a moldy closet, is the definition of weathering a painful storm.

And I can’t stand it—not one more second.

Inhaling, I pull in a deep breath and pray Remington won’t hate me when this is over. The last thing he’d want is for me to see him like this, but I can’t just crawl back into bed and listen to him suffer when I can help him.

I can rescue him like he rescued me.

I ease open the double accordion doors wider and creep into the closet. He’s turned and is now facing the wall, his body shivering in a cold sweat.

“D…ad,” Remington’s voice trembles as he says the moniker aloud.

I pause, my hands clenched around the door. Surely, Remington’s father isn’t the cause of this nightmare.

It wouldn’t be the first time a parent has been the cause of nightmares, though. My stepfather and mother have haunted mine for years.

“Don’t. Please. I’m not sick.”

That’s it.

“Remington.” I slide in next to him and run my hand through his wet hair. “Hey, it’s me. I’m here.You’reokay.”

His taut muscles still, and I can’t tell if he’s awake. “You’re safe,” I say, just in case he hears me. “Everything is okay.”

Without knowing the details of his past, I’m not sure what else to say. I can only hope that my touch is enough to reassure him that he’s not alone.

“Remington.” I stroke up his back until I reach his shoulder. “Remington? Can you hear me?”

He doesn’t respond. Instead, another shiver wracks his body, and his breathing speeds up as he moans something that ends in a whimper.

“What was that? Your name?”

I only catch a little of the word, but I swear it sounded like the wordname. “Remington, wake up.” I brush along his arm until I get to his hand, which is balled into a tight fist. I manage to pry his fingers apart, and when I try to take his hand, I find something rough and hard in his palm.

Is it a rock? I can’t tell in the dark, but it doesn’t feel sharp like it could hurt me. “Remingt—”

The breath whooshes out of me as I’m yanked farther into the closet, lying on top of a heaving and very much awake Remington.

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