I could picture it so clearly in my mind: Dad holding Blake close, pulling him into the safety of his chest as he whispered soothing words and gently rubbed his back to calm him.

The muffled sobs that followed were heart-wrenching—desperate, broken sounds of a boy trapped in nightmares he couldn’t escape.

Struggling to swallow the emotions that had lodged themselves stubbornly in my throat, I tossed and turned, my body contorting in a futile attempt to escape the weight of it all.

Maybe Blake wasn’t taking my place.

Maybe he was just finding his own.

Maybe this boy needed this home more than I ever did.

2

BEVERLY, 1993

11 years old

Blake’s nightmares lasted for months, each one more agonizing than the last. His screams ripped through the silence, yanking me from sleep with my heart slamming against my ribs. The first few times, I shot out of bed, my feet hitting the floor before I even knew what I was doing.

But I never made it past my door.

Deep down, I knew he wouldn’t want me to.

Over time, the screams faded into strangled cries, muffled before they could escape fully. I would lie there, listening to the rustle of his sheets, the creak of his bed as he shifted, the soft gasps of someone fighting to swallow their panic.

I don’t remember when I first knocked on the wall between our rooms. Maybe I was half-asleep, or maybe it was just something to fill the silence. But I did it—two soft, rhythmic taps. “It’s okay, Blake,” I whispered. “I’m here. It’s just a dream.”

For a long time, nothing. Just his breath, still uneven, still shaky. I wondered if he had even heard me, if he was still tangled up in whatever nightmare had wrapped itself around his mind.

My eyes fluttered shut. Maybe he was already slipping back into sleep. Maybe it had all been in my head.

Then, the faintest creak of his bed. A pause.

And then, a knock.

A breath of relief slipped from my lips.

It was so soft, I almost thought I imagined it.

But then it came again.

I smiled to myself.

From that moment on, it became our ritual. Every time I heard his breathing grow ragged in the middle of the night, the soft sounds of his struggle against the panic creeping in, I would knock. Two taps, just like before. Eventually, he would knock back. No words. No explanations. Just a quiet acknowledgment in the dark. A silent promise: You’re not alone.

It was the only time he let me in, even if just a little.

During the day, Blake moved through the world like someone afraid of being seen, afraid of taking up space. He was the silent observer, always blending into the background wherever he went, slipping in and out of spaces like a ghost that hadn’t quite figured out where it belonged.