Cooper Dahlsing woke up standing somewhere in the desert, surrounded by warm night air. He didn’t know where, exactly. Hopefully not far from home. It was dark, but not pitch black. The light of a gibbous moon offered some illumination. No wristwatch, no cell phone. From the position of the moon, he guessed it was two or three in the morning.
As his eyes adjusted, he recognized he was on a trail he often took for his hikes. He wasn’t miles from home, fortunately. He stood for a minute, getting his bearings. Moonbeams highlighted the metal on an object to his left. The old abandoned television set. He blew out a relieved breath. He knew where he was and began the trek home.
Cooper thought—had hoped against hope—it had stopped for good. He should have known he would never be freed from the constant threat of occasional night adventures that were better described as night terrors. Nightmares he was actually, physically, a part of. Ones he woke up in, wondering how in the hell he had gotten there when the last thing he remembered was falling asleep in his own bed.
He began experiencing episodes of somnambulism—sleepwalking—during graduate school. After several frustrating years seeking medical answers, he had found a neurologist who diagnosed him with a rare form of epilepsy. The problem was they never landed on the right medication cocktail Cooper was able to tolerate.
Cooper woke up in an assortment of places. One time he awakened staring into a dark shop window at one o’clock in the morning, his car parked and running behind him. Another time he was in a bar having a beer with some guys. Strangers who all seemed to know him. Still another, he was out walking a ways from home in below zero weather, clad only in pajamas and slippers.
But the worst was the morning he awoke with blood on his pajamas. It appeared he had wiped bloody hands on them. From the news on the television, he learned a woman had been killed by a hit and run driver and left to die on the side of the road. Terror weakened him. He wondered if he was the driver. There had been other unsolved hit and runs, but this was the first time he suspected he may be the culprit, the one responsible. He found no dent in his car, but would there be one if the hard bumper hit a soft target?
Cooper’s unconscious nighttime activities increased after that. He was even more afraid to fall asleep. He sold his car so he couldn’t drive in his sleep. His confidence, and work as a college professor, suffered. Exhaustion became his normal state. He considered hiring a night attendant, but who was completely trustworthy?
He contemplated taking his life.
Instead, while searching for a home in a warmer climate, he found an ad for one in Rubicon Ranch. He felt it was a wise choice to move to Rubicon Ranch. It could get cold at night, but he wouldn’t get frostbite, or freeze to death. And without a car, he couldn’t run anyone over.
Cooper reached his street in record time. He noticed the lights on in a neighbor’s house, surprised anyone was still up at that hour. But people kept different schedules. Movement caught his eyes as he passed old man Franklin’s house. A curtain moved back over the window. Why would Franklin be looking outside in the middle of the night? Was there more happening in Rubicon Ranch than Cooper knew about?
Cooper’s door was unlocked, thankfully, since he had no keys with him. He stopped by the kitchen and downed a glass of water, then headed to his bedroom. Funny, his bed was made. Then he remembered, he had fallen asleep on the couch watching television.Television, he thought as he pulled back the covers and climbed beneath them. One reason his young friend Riley—his only real friend in the neighborhood—stopped by at four in the afternoon whenever she could to watch Little House on the Prairie. She said her parents didn’t like television, but didn’t mind if she watched at other people’s houses. Cooper didn’t really believe her, but what harm was there in allowing her to watch a family-friendly show here and there?