Icy fingers touched my arm, and I jerked awake. For a split second, I thought something sinister stood over me in the dark, but then my brain became alert and I realized it was my son.
“Jake, what are you doing out of bed?” I rubbed my eyes and pushed myself into a sitting position.
“Water, please?” Jake, only three years old, twisted his little fingers together and smiled.
“Sure, okay. Let’s get you some water.” I tossed the blanket off me and glared towards my husband’s sleeping form. He’d be getting the next one, that was for sure.
This had been going on nearly every night since we’d moved into my mother’s spare bedroom. We’d put Jake to bed at nine, as usual. Then we’d go to bed around eleven. And by two in the morning, he was at my side asking for some water. I’d started putting a cup next to his bed when we put him down, but either he was drinking it or spilling it, because by 2am, it was empty.
“What’s going on, Jakey? What’s been making you so thirsty at night?” I held his little hand as we walked down the hall to the kitchen.
“I no know.” He shrugged. “Hat man talk lots. I talk lots. Thirsty.” He shrugged again.