It has been six months since the Vietnam War ended. Since Dan came home, completely changed. You had expected it, but he hadn’t — he had expected to die.

Six months, and Dan has not slept through an entire night once. He always waits until after you’ve gone to sleep, or can’t hold unconsciousness for more than an hour at a time, or wakes up at some ungodly hour of the morning. Or, in most cases, all three.

Worst of all is the nightmares.

Dan will quiver like a wounded animal next to you in bed. He will be covered in sweat, his flesh a sickly pallid color. His fingers will clench at his clothes as if trying to rid himself of some ungodly being clinging to his body. Soft gasps will leave him, and then the words. Mostly a helpless please or a strangled help. If he doesn’t wake himself up, you will have to.

A slight scream. He jerks upright, scrambling towards the headboard. You are sitting in the bed next to him, reading a book by lamplight. His lack of sleep has transferred to you, but not in the same level of terror. You look over to him, tell him to breathe.

“Jesus Christ,” he rasps. He slouches forward, head in his hands. His hair is wet with his perspiration. “I’m sorry.”