A vivid snapshot of her eldest child flashed into Stevie's mind, derailing her prayer. It was the one picture she most wished could be wiped from her memory: her seventeen-year-old son lying white and lifeless on a gurney as EMTs vainly tried to pound his heart awake. The unbidden scene still brought a lump to Stevie's throat. "Oh, God," Stevie whispered, "please don't let it happen again. Please don't let—" The car phone sounded, startling Stevie. "Yes?"
The sleepy voice of a nine-year-old mumbled, "I had a sad dream, so I came to get in bed with you but you weren't there. And Mrs. Lopez fell asleep on the couch." "Another sad dream about Dougie?" Stevie probed cautiously. She purposely used sad dream instead of bad dream or nightmare with Collin, hoping to diminish his fear. Collin's dreams about his older brother were terrifying. Stevie had been awakened by similar nightmares many times herself. "Yeah, about Dougie." "Why don't you snuggle up in my bed for a while and watch cartoons," she urged. And if you need Daddy to come over, or if you just want to talk to him about your dream, call him. OK? I love you."
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