Jason walks down the stairs the next morning while I'm balancing my accounts in the kitchen. He has a major limp, so he has to lean on the banister for some time, but he eventually makes it down the stairs.
We mutter, "Good morning," at the same moment, and suddenly, the air is awkward.
I clear my throat. "Did you sleep well?" I ask like I did not hear his shouts clear across the house last night.
I'd initially thought it was his work out regime that had caused it. I'd walked to his door, and was about to knock or call out a warning about how he shouldn't push himself too hard. But I'd heard some other sounds, another shout. And I'd realized he was dreaming.
Quentin had night terrors all through secondary school, and I knew the best way to handle it was not to startle him. If I'd kn
