This is a story of how I went from groggy to super-wide-awake, gaining the kind of clarity in two seconds that typically would require five cups of a beverage supplied by named Juan Valdez.

There was something. A creak. A whisper. Shuffling. My eyes opened almost involuntarily, and they noticed an outline at my bedroom door, framed by a nightlight across the hall.

The silhouette was still, a little more than four feet tall. Quiet. Could only be one thing.

“Bryson, buddy, it’s late, you really should be in bed at this hour.” That’s what I’d intended to say. What I heard was, “Whu …. Huh?”

Bryson, of course, hadn’t heard anything. He was sound asleep. If there had been enough light, his glassy stare would have given away his current state of not-even-semi consciousness.

I turned my head to see the glowing green numerals on the clock. 1:16.

When he started sleepwalking a few years ago, I would dutifully climb out of bed and gently steer him by the shoulders back to his room. I would lift him into his bed, tucking the sheet around him, giving him a peck on the forehead. I would watch him for a minute or two, making sure he was truly back to sleep, his brain settling into its usual post-ambulatory state.

“Bryson, you’re asleep. Go back to bed.”

That’s where I was at now. Words. Simple ones, the kind we can understand given the stages of sleep we were both at – his was at “sound,” I was hovering between “pre-REM” and “Please just go away so I can return to Slumberville.”

“I have to go to the bathroom.”

Many people are under the misconception sleepwalkers are in a dream world, responding to stimuli found only in their heads. But Bryson will respond to outside stimuli, a cranky father for instance, as if he were awake.

But he was not. I knew the difference. Much of his sleepwalked seemed to stem from a desire to relieve himself, which he did surprisingly given the fact he was likely dreaming.

“OK, go to the bathroom, then back to bed.”

His head bobbed. It could have been a nod, maybe an involuntary spasm. Either way, I took it for acknowledgement.

Then he stepped forward. Brain, I said, is that right? Shouldn’t he have altered course to go toward the bathroom. Brain? Brain, are you online?

Bryson took another step forward. And another. Brain, we have a problem. Something is not right and we could really use the firing of a few synapses to explain the situation.

A light flicked on. Brain, that is not the light to the bathroom. Repeat, that is not the light to the bathroom. Explain please.

Brain, subject is entering light. Wait, not just light. Lighted room. Wait, not just lighted room. Closet. Lighted room is closet. Repeat, subject has just entered walk-in closet. Brain, please respond. Your assistance in this matter is mandatory.

Wait, change of position. Subject has turned. He is now facing to the left. Toward laundry basket. Brain, subject has stopped. He is now inserting both thumbs into waistband and

“Evacuate bed now! Repeat, evacuate bed now! Situation urgent!”

In a fluid move my body had not been capable of since I was 25, I threw off the covers and vaulted the width of my mattress to land within a few feet of Bryson (I should have thrust my arms up in Olympic fashion upon the perfect landing, but there were more important thing to do. Like scream).

“NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO!”

Brain was back in full control. “Grasp subject around wrists and assume control of situation.”

No problem.

“Bryson, hey, this is not the bathroom.”

He twisted in my iron-like grip. “What? Yes it is.”

“No, trust me, it isn’t. Seriously. You’re in my closet. That’s not a toilet, that’s a laundry basket.”

I walked him the 12 feet away from the dream bathroom to the real one, where his motor skills took over and completed the task.

I steered him toward bed, wondering what book I should read for the next half hour to get back to sleep.