What I Saw When I Was Sleeping
The house rumbled and the windows rattled in their sashes. Lightning shattered the sky every few minutes and I counted one-Mississippi, two-Mississippi, three-Mississippi, four-Mississi- and thunder boomed again. Instead of going up, my counts went down until they were on top of one another, no Mississippis in between, just light ripping open the sky while my bed shook.
My door opened with another bang and Jessie stood there, a perfect black silhouette against the bright hallway. Another flash of lightning came and lit her up like daytime. Sobbing, she ran and threw herself onto my bed.
I was hot, even under my light summer quilt, but she shivered. I got her under the covers and rubbed her back as she fought for air between sobs. “We’ve got a lightning rod on the roof,” I reminded her, repeating what Dad had told us our entire lives. “Nothing’s gonna zap us down here.”
“It’s not the storm that scared me,” she finally said. “It’s what I saw when I was sleeping.” Through the parted curtains, lightning turned her face from shadow to stone and her eyes stared at nothing. I stroked her forehead with my index finger, waiting for her to continue, but she didn’t. A roar shook the house.
“One-Mississippi, two-Mississippi, three-Mississippi, four-Mississippi,” I counted aloud, before another flash went off. My finger still tracing her brow, Jessie finally closed her eyes.
“Sam, don’t let go,” she whispered. My nightie stuck to me under the sheets, but I didn’t dare push her away. Through the open window I could smell the rain was coming. The storm had broken like a fever.
