Jack focused on the play of light on the ceiling from the street-lamp in front of his building and shuddered anew. On their way inside, its beams passed through the leafless limbs of the lonely tree planted between his house and the lamppost. As the night breezes blew the branches, it caused the light to flicker, projecting an undulating series of hypnotic Rorschach-like patterns. It made him feel alone in a cold, merciless universe.

Jack felt his forehead. He wasn’t sweating, but then he felt his pulse. It was pounding and rapid, somewhere in the hundred-and-fifty per minute range, a sign that his sympathetic nervous system was in a full fight-or-flight reaction, typical after experiencing this brakeless-car dream.

What was unique about this particular dream scenario were the children. Usually the dreaded focus was purely personal, like a flimsy guardrail running along a precipice, a solid brick wall, or a fathomless body of water filled with sharks.

He turned his head to the clock. It was after four a.m. With his heart racing, he knew instinctively that there was no way he’d fall back to sleep. Instead, he gently tossed back the covers to avoid disturbing Laurie, and slipped out of bed. The oak flooring was as cold as marble.

He stood and stretched his stiff muscles. Despite being in his fifties, Jack still played street basketball whenever the weather and his schedule permitted. The evening before, in an attempt to harness his current anxieties, he played until he nearly dropped. He knew he’d pay a price in the morning, and he was right. He pushed himself through the pain and discomfort by bending over and holding his palms flat to the floor. Then he headed for the bathroom while musing about the children in his nightmare. He wasn’t surprised by this fresh torture. The source of his current anguish, reawakened guilt, and threatening depression was a child: his own child, in fact, John Junior—JJ, as he and Laurie called him. The baby had arrived in August, a few weeks earlier than expected. But they’d been fully prepared, Laurie especially. She’d taken the whole experience in stride. In contrast, by the time the delivery was over some ten hours later, Jack was as exhausted as if he’d been the one who’d given birth. Though he’d assisted with his two daughters, he’d forgotten how emotionally difficult the experience was. He was relieved that both mother and child were fine and resting comfortably.

Things had gone reasonably well for the first month or so. Laurie was on maternity leave and enjoyed being a new mother despite JJ’s nighttime fussiness. Jack’s fears that the baby would be born with a genetic or congenital problem dissipated. He’d never admitted to Laurie that after the delivery and assurances that she was fine, he’d rushed to look over the pediatrician’s shoulder.

Panicked, Jack had checked the child’s facies and counted his fingers and toes. He wasn’t sure if he could handle a handicapped child, as guilty as he felt at the fate of his two daughters. He had struggled with the idea of having another child, and whether he could risk the vulnerability and responsibility of parenthood, particularly if the child was disabled. He had even been reluctant to remarry. If not for Laurie’s stalwart patience and unflagging support, he wouldn’t have risked it. Deep down Jack couldn’t rid himself of the feeling that he was somehow fated to bring disaster to those he loved.