Where They Wait

by Scott Carson

“Fine, asshole: Why were you curious to see whether I’d walk off a roof?” “Because you don’t remember trauma,” he said calmly. “And you do not dream. Clarity involves trauma and dreams. Intimately. While I’d love to take credit for your unique condition, the credit belongs with your mother. She bulletproofed you.” “I don’t remember my dad’s accident,” I said. “But I don’t think that extends beyond—” “False,” Bryce Lermond said with a terrible, giddy delight. “You do not remember trauma, Nick. Pain, violence, agony—none of it sticks.” “You’re wrong. Crazy, but also fundamentally wrong. I’ve been all over the world recording traumatic events. War zones, hurricanes, homicides. I can send you the story I wrote about the family they found on the border, sealed into a shipping container and left in the desert heat. Tell you how that looked and smelled and sounded. My whole career has been—” “Reporting on other people’s trauma,” he said.