Lay Me Down

2. Bad dreams.

{Jon}

Jon had already brushed his teeth and was sprawled on the floor, reading, when Cary came in. "Your turn in the bed," Jon said. "I'm ready for lights out."

Cary flipped the switch and Jon blinked in the sudden darkness. "Sure—now." He felt his way across the floor to his blankets and pillow.

"I'm going back with my mom soon," Cary said.

Jon propped himself up on his elbows. "Oh no, really? Did my dad say that?"

"Yeah."

Jon could just see the shape of Cary's bare shoulders as he climbed into the bed. He wished he could see what was going on in Cary's head. Lately his friend had been nearly silent, appearing at Jon's locker so they could go together to the north doors at lunch hour, but then disappearing into the crowded hallway without a word when lunch hour was over.

"Do you want to go?" Jon asked. In the dim light, he saw Cary put his hands over his face.

"Not up to me."

Jon fell back on his pillow, prickly with anger and not sleepy at all.

"You'll get your bed back," Cary said.

"I wanted to get bunk beds," Jon said shortly.

Cary laughed once, a soft, dry sound. "You're something, Jon."

Jon punched up his pillow. "Something you're gonna miss," he snapped back.

The silence that followed made him sorry he'd put his anger on Cary. He didn't know who he was supposed to be angry at, but he was sure it wasn't him.

"Yeah," Cary said finally. "You'll see me at school."

"You don't talk at school."

"What is there to say?" Cary's voice had roughened. "My dad is going to jail and I still think he's going to come around the corner and fucking pin me against the wall. You know that already. There's no one else I care to tell."

It took Jon's breath away a little to hear Cary say it. "I mean, you could just tell me how you're doing that day."

There was a pause. "I'm just tired." The words were ragged around the edges. Cary was sleeping like crap, and they both knew it. "And that shit presses on me 'til everything is dark. Except you. And being here."

Jon closed his eyes. Tears stung his nose and throat. "I didn't know that."

"It's your turn to pray," Cary said.

So Jon prayed, asking for God to spread his protection over them, to keep them from terrors in the dark, and for Jesus to fill and heal their hearts while they slept. They used almost the same words every night—the prayer Pete used to pray over Jon before bed.

Cary's breathing deepened almost immediately after Jon said "Amen." Jon put his hands against his eyes and let his tears go until his pillow was damp beside his ears. He wanted to pray more, but his heart felt broken, voiceless. All he could do was cry, like he had so many times since Cary came. He finally dried his face and rolled onto his stomach. Even if he could barely pray, he knew Jesus had his arms under him, carrying them both. That had to mean everything was going to be okay somehow. He felt asleep with that picture in his mind and slept deeply until Cary woke him up again.

{Cary}

The mahogany dining room table was more than large enough for Cary, who was lying spread-eagled on top. His fingers slid over the polished wood as they closed, trying to find something to hold onto. His wrists were pinned. His body was glued in place, a dead weight. Cary's eyes went all over the room: to the glittering chandelier above him, the high-backed chairs pushed back against the walls, and the metal coat rack pulled up next to the table.