“What helps you?” Farrow asks me, vague. We’ve been vague about PTSD. “Water on my face should be enough.” I unscrew the bottle. “You said yours is triggered by rain?” He kicks back against the closed fridge. “Yeah, but it’s been better.” He pauses. “Is yours frequent?” “No.” I swig the water, coolness rushing down my throat. “I haven’t had a nightmare in a while.” “It kicked your ass awake?” I meet his eyes. “Like a hammer to the skull.” He nods a few times.
