Humor is lost on the sleepwalking.

“Daddy, daddy, help me.”

This is how it starts. In the past I would throw off the covers, feel my way in the darkness until Bryson’s nightlight showed me the way, entering his room with a, “Bud, everything’s OK.”

But that was about a dozen sleepwalking episodes ago. Now I try to manage it from the comfort of my bed, head buried under the blanket, hoping the comforting sound of my voice would reach deeply into his subconscious and say, “Dude, can’t you see your dad is sleeping? And that you are too? Go back to bed.”

Lately I have had a hard time working up any enthusiasm to make sure he’s not dreaming that he’s a bird, launching himself off the bed. Besides, he does that when he’s awake and lands safely. Most of the time.

So maybe last night, I’m thinking, I’m getting a little too lackadaisical.

Bryson: “Daddy, daddy, help me!”

Me: “Huh? Bryson, you’re fine.”

“Nooo, please come please come, help me!”

(Sound of covers shifting, creak of bed, soft footsteps on the carpet.)

“Whatever you do, do not turn on the-“

(Brightness turns inner eyelids a shade of red that makes sleep difficult, if not impossible.)

“-light. Oh Bryson, what’s up?”

“Help me, daddy.”

“You’re sleeping. Sound asleep.”

“No, daddy, I need … I can’t …”

“Bryson, look up. Do you see clouds?”

“No.”

“Because you’re inside. Where it’s safe. In our house.”

“No, it’s not true.”

“What’s happening right now in your version of the world?”

“What?”

“What’s happening to you now?”

“They’re chasing me.”

“Who?”

“Dinosaurs.”

“There’s no such thing. Well, there were but, you know, this is not a conversation I feel like having right now.”

“They’re chasing me, daddy!”

“If you’d been born about 65 million years ago, that had a possibility of being true. Assuming people existed back then. Which they didn’t.”

“But-“

“And you didn’t exist until 10 years ago. Do the math.”

“Daddy, I don’t know what to do?”

“Turn off the light. That’s the first thing.”

“What light?”

“That light. On the wall. The one you never have trouble finding when you want to turn it on.”

(There is a hum followed by a whirring noise.)

“No, dude, that’s the fan. The switch right next to it.”

“What switch.”

“The one that goes up and down. The other one.”

(Hum stops. Brightness disappears.)

“OK, that’s great. Now go back to bed.”

“But daddy, what do I do?”

“Go to your room. Get into bed. Close your eyes.”

“Where’s my bedroom?”

“Go toward the light. Go … toward … the … light.”

“The light?”

“The … light. Only there will you find rest. At least until the morning.”

“I don’t want to.”

“At first it is natural to resist. But you must. You must go toward the light.”

“But-“

“Then go to the bathroom.”

(Brief silence. Splashing water. Faucet being turned, running water. Rattle of towel rack. You know you’ve ingrained the “Wash your hands after going to the bathroom” ritual when your kid does it even when he sleepwalks).”

“Daddy, the dinosaurs …”

“Do you need some medicine?” (When all else fails, resort to medication.)

“No.”

“OK, then wait for me in your bathroom. I’ll get the medicine.”

(Footsteps.)

“I’m here daddy. Help me.”

“Here I come.”

(In a bit.)

“Daddy-“

“Be right there.”

(Time passes.)

“Daddy!”

“OK, OK.”

(Climb out of bed. Feel way around bed. Follow light coming from Bryson’s room, turn corner to bathroom. It’s empty. Cross hallway. Look in his room. He is in bed. Motionless.)

“Goodnight, bud.”

Footnote: The following morning, Bryson says he remembers his nightmare and wonders why I did not help him. “I kept saying, ‘My throat is sore, my throat is sore.’” That’s not what I heard and I’m sticking by my story. Because I was the only one awake.