My body is humming with latent energy as I climb the narrow staircase to Professor Blake's office. I can still feel the heat from Kelsey's body, the brush of her hair against my skin.

For an academic space, Blake’s office isn't nearly as intimidating as it could be. Oh, don't get me wrong: she's got a hundred-pound brain and she's scary smart, but she's not an asshole about it. She doesn't have to talk down to you to make herself feel better. That's one of the things I love about her.

And her office is homey and welcoming. She's got an old sable leather couch that you can just kind of sink into and she's got these lamps that look like something from a museum with glass shades that reflect soft light throughout the room.

"If I worked here, I'd be asleep all the time," I say from the doorway.

She looks up from her MacBook and closes the lid with a smile. "You, young man, are late."

I frown. "No, I'm not. Our meeting was at ten, wasn't it?"

"And I changed it to nine thirty last week. And you responded to the email so don't try to play the ‘I didn't know’ card."

I pull out my phone, searching for her message…and there it is. "Shit, I'm sorry, ma'am. I didn't change it on my calendar."

She lifts one brow as she comes around her desk. "You're lucky my other engagement canceled; otherwise you'd be staring at a closed door."

"Let's be grateful for small miracles." She walks around her desk and pulls me into a warm hug.

I close my eyes and hold her close for a moment, as long as I can before I have to break free. It's hard for me to see her as an academic. She’s so much more than that. A mentor. A friend. A connection to another life that I’ll never give up.

There are limits to how connected I can be to that life. And some days, I walk a tighter edge than others. I'm walking that edge today.

Having Kelsey close enough to touch and having to let her go again…it's enough to break a man.

"How was class today?" she asks, circling her desk to sit across from me in the polished black wooden chair in front of it.

"Good, I think. We had to navigate some pretty tense politics today so that was interesting."

"Oh, really?"

"Yeah. Instead of discussing the role of women in the Kurdish forces, we ended up having a discussion about the Constitution."

She taps her pen against her thigh. "Interesting. Do you think it was helpful?"

"I don't know. I guess I'm questioning whether you can really change some people's minds once they've staked out a position."

"Well, if we don't believe we can change people's minds, then what are we doing here at an institution of higher learning?"

I release a tight breath. It’s such an obvious thing. So simple. So easily overlooked. "Good point."

"So. Your thesis. What's this idea you have?"

My lungs are still tight. It’s amazing how vulnerable you have to be to talk about a research proposal. Like the whole world is just waiting to laugh at you. "There's not much published work done on the current generation of veterans and their getting treatment at the VA. I was thinking I could do some qualitative research and look at their experiences. What they’re trying to be seen for. What challenges they’re having. That sort of thing?"

She tips her chin at me. "What's your research question?"

I pull out my notebook and hope that what I'm about to read doesn't make me sound like an undereducated asshole. "How do younger veterans see themselves and how does that impact their willingness or ability to use traditional veterans’ services."

She nods slowly. "That's very good."

"Really? Because I haven't slept in about a day and I was pretty well convinced it was total shit."

She laughs. "No, it's pretty good. I think we need to do some refinement but it's a good place to start. Have you thought about finding research participants?"

"Other than recruiting out of The Pint? Not really."

"We can work on that.” She pauses and you can almost see the wheels in her brain turning. “As you write, as you interview people, I want you to focus on capturing the authenticity of what your subjects say. I want your readers to hear the commonality of shared experiences you have with other veterans. Regardless of where they're from."

I look down at my coffee cup. "Isn't that a bit grand? I mean, no one is going to read this but you."

"Not necessarily. After we talk about your thesis, I want to start working on a veterans’ panel on campus. To build on the initiative with the ROTC program and link more of our students to the veterans around them. Think of it as a step toward building the bridge over the military–civilian divide."

I frown down at my notes. "Don't most students just want to yell at us about being tools of the evil hegemonic empire?"

"‘Evil hegemony’ is so 2010," she says, leaning back in the gleaming wood chair. "‘Storm Troopers of the New World Order’ is the current flavor."

"Wait, isn't that the right-wing term?"

"Funny; you go far enough left, you encounter the right." She smiles patiently. "In all seriousness, I think there's something compelling about your shared experiences that draws you all together, long after you've left the military service. You can tie this to your thesis as well. Talking about how you all navigate after you leave the service offers an interesting perspective for the students to hear from you." She pauses, long enough for me to look up at her. "I think you need to ask Kelsey to participate in your research."

I try to keep my expression neutral even as my stomach tightens in knots. "I can ask her." But I must look doubtful.

"She might be more open than you think. I also recommend you talk to Caleb Hollis as well. I think he has a very interesting story. And I think you have more in common than you realize."

I suddenly very much need something to do with my hands. I know exactly how much Kelsey and I have in common. "Do you really want me talking to Caleb for this? He’s pretty much every bad veteran stereotype we can come up with.” I try not to choke on my hypocrisy. But at least mine is deeply hidden.

The best hypocrisies often are.

“His is a victory that just hasn’t happened yet."

"And the rest of us? You want us to talk about the things we did to kill the boredom on deployments?"

She laughs and it surprises me. "No, I do not want you to talk about that. I'm not sure our students would find that nearly as funny as all of you would." She pauses. "I want you to talk about coming home. About how you learned who you were after you took off the uniform. And about whether that journey impacted your willingness to use the VA."

I grin. "You sure I can't just talk about how I taped the cover of a Hustler onto a Playgirl for my squad leader? It would be significantly less traumatic than unpacking all the taking-the-uniform-off stuff."

She shakes her head, still smiling. "I'll pass, thanks. But I think if you can find some inspiring stories from downrange, stories that draw you all together into a common narrative, your research could have a significant impact."

"Impact on what?"

Her smile is mysterious in only the way a professor's can be. "I'm working on a few things that I'm hoping to tie your work with the cadets and your research to. I want to expand our veterans’ programs here on campus, and to do that I need to bring in donors." She holds up her hand. "Don't give me that look. Our donors have been very generous in their support of veterans’ programs here on campus and in the community."

"Too bad they can't be generous and fix the VA," I mumble.

"Several of them are working on it. It's complicated."

"Isn't everything?"

I'm not really sure how Kelsey will react when I ask her to participate. Even if she agrees, which is definitely not guaranteed, I wonder how she'll feel about these questions.

But I'll ask. Because Professor Blake’s asked me to. And she's one of the few people on campus genuinely committed to helping bridge the gap. And she's not asking us about Call of Duty or PTSD, so I suppose that's progress.

Isn't it?

How do you sleep when you're out of Xanax?

I wonder if my Internet pen pal will answer me. I have to admit this is the strangest thing I've ever done, but after my shit show inability to get an appointment at the VA and the disaster in class, I'm grasping at straws, trying to keep things in perspective.

To keep calm and all that.

It doesn't help that Deacon knocked my world off axis right after class. I needed space and time to move everything back into the correct box. But instead, I ended up standing far too close to him on the quad. I could have moved. Or I could have slid my mouth against his and tasted the pleasure of his touch once more.

The more time I spend around him, the more I'm reminded of everything we lost downrange. And fear, when mixed with arousal, is a dangerous thing.

I have a few hours before my shift and no more cadets or class today. Hours before I have to face the end of my shift and the emptiness of my apartment.

I head to 1984 to do some research or browse aimlessly or do anything to keep my mind off the approaching darkness.

Maybe I'll be able to find some books on sleeping without medication, since I'm clearly not going to be able to get any new prescriptions any time soon.

It's absurd that the insurance I have through school won't treat issues that should be covered by the VA. Why didn't I lie on my intake forms and tell them I wasn't eligible for treatment at the VA? Then I wouldn't be having this problem. They'd give me a nice little prescription for Xanax or Ambien and I'd be sleeping like a champ and walking back from the edge of madness.

I love this bookstore. The moment I walk through the doors, I'm hit with the smell of incense and warmth. And there are more than just mainstream books here. There's a fantastic international section that carries books by Indian authors on yoga. It's refreshing to study different perspectives as Indian scholars work on reclaiming yoga from colonialism, but it takes work to find indigenous Indian writing on the subject. Everything that comes up when you Google it is usually by some generic perky blond woman who means well but often just repeats harmful inaccuracies about the Hindu traditions.

I've done my own share of harmful things as I've gotten deeper into my practice. I'm sure I will again. But I'm working on doing better.

"Can I help you find something?"

I look up at the clerk, who looks more like an escapee from Woodstock than a bookworm. She has a head full of white-blond, twisted dreadlocks and bright, happy eyes behind her horn-rimmed glasses. She smells faintly of patchouli and roses. She feels…friendly, and there's something about her that puts me instantly at ease.

"I'm looking for books on insomnia." It's an easy admission. It doesn't involve anything deeper than that.

"You're in luck. We just got in two new books on that."

I frown, mildly surprised. "Really? Hot topic these days?"

Before I started yoga, I would have considered that a coincidence. Now? Now I'm always amazed at how the universe works. I don't believe in coincidence anymore.

I don't necessarily believe that everything happens for a reason because that…that's a level of cruelty that I can't accept. But I do choose to believe that I'm where I need to be and that the universe has placed certain things in my path.

"With all the politics surrounding insurance lately, we've had a lot of increased interest in nonmedical treatments for all kinds of things."

I swallow, wishing that comment didn't hit as close to home as it did. "Yeah, well, I can relate to that."

She motions for me to follow her to a nearby shelf, and pulls a book from it to show me. "There's some really interesting stuff out there. This one is published by a medical doctor out of Colorado. I'm not sure how you feel about marijuana but she's claiming that she's got several patients who have benefited greatly from it."

The part of me that will always be in the Army jerks away from the idea of smoking pot. But the part of me that remembers I'm a civilian now and really needs to fucking sleep is intrigued. "Really?"

"She's got some other possible treatments. Chamomile tea is popular if you're worried about getting arrested for trying to score some weed."

I laugh at her statement. "That's a really sad commentary on so many things."

She smiles and it is warm and welcoming as she chooses another book. "It really is. Check these out and if they don't work for you, I'll see what else I can figure out. Lack of sleep is not something to ignore."

She hands me the books and I can't miss the flash of a pearl-white scar slashing down her forearm and disappearing beneath her brown leather wristband.

She catches me staring. "It was a long time ago," she says quietly. "But trust me when I tell you that sleep is important."

I swallow hard as she moves away to help another customer. I buy a cup of coffee and sit in a corner, beneath some wind chimes decorated with moons and stars swaying gently from little silver strings.

1984 is an oddly comforting space. The music is something New Age-y and the warm scent of sandalwood mixed with coffee and tea fills the air. There's a quiet buzz. Something magical, if I believed in magic.

I may not believe in magic but the connection of us to each other…yeah, yoga has taught me a lot about just accepting the things that happen for what they are.

I smile to myself, remembering an argument I had with one of my squad leaders back in Iraq, about whether or not there was a God. She'd been so certain in her faith. So, sure.

Looking back, I envy her faith. It must be so comforting to believe that every bad thing in this world happens for a reason. That there's ultimately some good that will come of it.

I wish I had her faith. I wish I could have that certainty. I don't.

It's not that I don't believe in God. It's that I don't know what kind of God would allow this much evil in the world.

I shove those thoughts away and crack open the spine of the first book. The jacket is a brilliant white, with a pot leaf sitting in a mason jar resting on a concrete countertop. The Skeptic’s Guide to Medical Marijuana.

"Well, at least she's not promising miracles," I mumble.

Introduction: Why You Should Be Skeptical of this Book.

I smile. Parker would have a field day with this opening as a marketing plan. It's kind of brilliant. Telling people why they shouldn't buy the book is probably the fastest way to get someone to buy what you're selling.

My phone vibrates and I look down at an email from my Internet pen pal.

I don't use Xanax. It gives me nightmares.

It's odd the way his stupid email makes me feel. Connected. Like there's someone out there who might not judge me as harshly as I judge myself.

How do you sleep then?

His response is pretty damn fast, seeing how it has to hit the Craigslist servers then come back to me.

There's no way this doesn't make me sound like a weirdo—and I know your ad specifically stated no weirdos—but sex helps a lot.

I grin, thinking about Deacon and his tendency to go home with women from the bar. Someone should write that self-help book: Fuck Your Way Out of Insomnia. I don't think they'd stock that one on the shelves at the local Barnes & Noble.

Don't you worry about catching something? Or stumbling into the next Fatal Attraction?

I flip back to the pot book, needing something to fill the time before his next response.

One, I'm selective. I only sleep with people who know what they're signing up for: a one-night stand of mind-blowing sex. Two, I always, always wear protection.

Heat traces through my veins at his words. Mind-blowing sex sounds pretty amazing. It's been far too long since I've had my hair blown back.

Well, I'm not having sex with you. I don't sleep with strangers.

If I tell you my name, then we're not strangers.

I shake my head at this last note.

How do you know you'd even want to sleep with me? What if I'm hideous and deformed and covered in tattooed scars?

A very legitimate question. Some men don't like women who have tattoos. Or scars.

This time, he doesn't respond immediately and I’m once more afraid I’ve run him off.

But when he does, his comment thaws a little bit of the ice around my heart.

Everyone deserves to have someone to hold them at night.