CHAPTER SEVEN
I heard J.T. screaming. At first, I thought it was my nightmare, not his. I saw his face drained of blood, there before my eyes inside my dreaming mind. When I was cognizant, I was aware of him beside me, panting—no longer screaming, if he ever had been—shaking like a rabbit cornered by a fox. I put my hand to his shoulder to calm him, and he batted it away. Sitting, so I could see his eyes, I found peering out of the black night, a lost face, as though the man was missing his soul.
“Jack,” I gently took his hand in mine. This time he didn’t brush it aside. “Are you all right?” I began to quake myself, like his fright was seeping into me through his unsteady fingers.
He shook his head, shaking some unwanted image from his mind. “I’ll be fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Y
