Thirst

Jim Harper is having his one recurring dream. He’s back in Kuwait during Desert Storm, circa September 1990. He can feel the doom approaching. And not from the mine that he and the other three members of his company are about to roll over, causing an explosion that kills everyone but himself. No, as traumatic as that was, he’s gotten over it, for the most part.

'The true terror is out there,' he thinks, looking out at the ceaselessly rolling dunes and contemplating the perfect isolation of his group in the moments before their Humvee hits the explosive concealed in the sand. The horror is the desert itself. Not a drop of water for miles, with the water they’d carried blown to bits. After pulling the shrapnel from his left leg, the tourniquet saves him from bleeding out, but perhaps it would have been better if he’d had.

He’s too far from base to return along the route they came, tasked with visiting a potential informant well outside the normal sphere of operation. It’s not even really a road that they’d been travelling on; more of a cart path, if anything. Recalling the map they’d studied prior to departure, he determines to move forward instead, towards the village that’s still a good twenty miles away. It’s midday as he limps away from the scene, the sun beating down like the desert’s own torturer, as effective as anything the U.S. Army employs.

Within hours he’s stripped himself of all excess garments, having left most of his uniform in the sand behind him. Sweating profusely, eyes as dry as the desert wind that stings them with every gust, tongue like sandpaper, lips as the scales of the horned lizards he’s seen high-tailing across the endless sea of dunes, his progression slows with his rising thirst. By mile fifteen, the sun beginning to fall behind the distant hills perched above the target village, he’s ready for the desert to take him. Lying down, he fantasizes about his swimming pool back home, and his fridge full of Mexican beer. When the villager literally stumbles over him late that night, heaving him up upon his donkey and ushering him towards salvation, he’s delirious and near death, unable to separate truth from his imaginings.

---

Jim Harper wakes up thirsty. He’s back at base, now in occupied Afghanistan. He and his unit are low-key here in this house, attempting to blend in and play nice with the natives, for the sake of future political relations. And as safe as he usually feels here, the fear of dying of thirst never leaves him. This country, too, is inhospitable of climate.

But at least they have supplies here. And the small park across from their compound has a little pond lined with palm trees that he visits whenever overcome with such fear, to steady his nerves. He may need to pay it a visit this morning; right now, in fact. His mouth and throat are devoid of fluid, just as in the dream. Standing, he’s dizzy from the dehydration. Remembering that he’d placed a glass of water on his nightstand, he reaches for it, and is shocked to find it filled with sand.

Sitting up too quickly, he almost falls out of bed. Looking around the room, sand covers the floor. Damnit! He left the window open, that must account for it. Stumbling out of bed, he slams the window closed, then proceeds into the hallway, bound for the bathroom. He’s so desperate for water that he startles a member of his unit coming out, still wet from his shower.

There are only four of them here now, and the one visitor. They always seem to have one visitor; someone who always has some sort of cover, and always seems to be eyeing the members of his unit from the computer table in the living room, to the degree where he wonders if they’re under investigation by internal affairs.

Turning on the bathroom light, Jim immediately turns on the cold water at the sink. As it pours out he leans over to drink directly from the faucet, but as soon as he places his mouth in position, there’s nothing. He looks at the knob; it’s in the on position. What the..?! He turns on the hot water, ready to accept anything, and again, water. But it’s so steaming hot that when he leans in to drink, his mouth is scalded, and he yelps in pain, tumbling backwards in agony, almost falling into the shower. The shower! He turns on the hot water. Nothing. Then the cold. The pipes groan, as if overworked from seeking the little water remaining in this little desert village outside Kabul. Finally, a drip. But it’s more sand than water. Desperate, he drinks it anyway, immediately gagging and coughing from swallowing sand.

Panicking, he flees from the bathroom, entering the living room. The visitor gives him a worried look, then returns to whatever he’s doing on the computer. Probably typing a report about his unit. Maybe even about him. But Jim is in too desperate a shape to worry about that now. Running into the kitchen, he removes the communal bottle of orange juice from the fridge and pours himself a full glass. As he overturns it into his mouth, he’s struck by a sickening sourness. It’s overpowering; more like drinking raw lemon juice. Still, he’s so thirsty that he gulps it down anyway, but finds afterward that the lingering taste has only made him more thirsty.

Throwing the juice back into the fridge, he goes for the milk next, beginning to chug it straight from the carton, not realizing until he’s taken a few swigs that it’s curdled and rancid. He spits it up onto the floor, then slams the carton down on the counter, exploding the rancidness across the kitchen. The visitor is alarmed by this, and, standing from the computer table across the way, approaches to investigate. He eyes Jim and the mess he’s made. Jim says nothing, just looks at him, thinking: ‘How could you not know what the problem is?!’

“It’s okay Jim, I’ll go get the mop,” the visitor says before wandering off down the hallway.

‘I don’t know why he insists upon calling me by my first name,’ Jim thinks. ‘I mean, he may outrank me, but that’s no excuse for disregarding protocol.’

As the visitor walks away, Jim tries the kitchen faucet. Nothing. Then the coffee carafe. ‘He left nothing for me! Damnit! I saw him drinking our coffee! The least that he could do is start brewing another round, if he insists on drinking the entire carafe!’ Seeing the unit’s specially trained bomb-sniffing dog run out through the back door, left slightly ajar, desperation continuing to climb, he runs out after him.

The canine has proceeded directly to his water bowl. Jim dives for it and pushes the dog aside, but he’s too late. The mutt has had all of it. Scanning his surroundings, he soon notices the hose a few feet away, curled up like a massive sidewinder. But it offers nothing but sandy sludge. Falling back against the wall, Jim feels like he’s going to pass out. Then the miracle happens. Rain! ‘Here?! It hasn’t rained in months… God has saved me!’

Standing, Jim runs out into the rain, and is immediately covered in little burning sensations. Each drop singes his skin, and he’s soon fleeing back against the wall, seeking the protection of the eaves. Acid rain! ‘God is punishing me for my life of sin! Taunting me! Telling me that I should have died in Kuwait.’

Sinking down in despair, Jim knows that he’ll soon lose consciousness, and begins to sob. ‘The end has finally come,’ he thinks, trying to accept his fate. That’s when he hears the sound of children playing. ‘The park across the street! The pond! It’s my last chance.’

Sprinting for the backyard gate, he finds that it’s locked. ‘Why are they always locking this damn thing?!,’ he wonders in frantic fury. ‘And why such a high fence?! It’s not like we’re in any real danger here.’

Lacking the time to go back in and search for the key to the gate, Jim uses the last of his energy and awareness to scale the fifteen-foot-high fence, landing on the other side on his bad left leg. Shrieking in pain, he barely manages to stand, then limp his way forward, stride by agonizing stride, toward the palm-tree-fringed pond, the park seeming more oasis than ever.

Diving in headfirst, he feels the cool water engulf him, comfort him, like a loving friend he’s long missed. He drinks, and drinks, and drinks.

---

Early the next morning, Dan Jenkins, a mental health worker, crosses the wet pavement of the parking lot for the Foster Recovery Home outside Portland, Oregon. The grounds are still wet from the previous night’s showers. He enters to find the three other members of the medium security residential facility in an ecstatic uproar, happy for the excitement. It’s Jim.

He’s run away again; somehow managed to avoid being seen scaling the fence, again. An incident report has been left on the desk by the computer by the previous shift member, Greg Hanson, reporting an occurrence from the previous night:

“JH demonstrated signs of severe agitation at 1830. Milk spilled all over the floor and countertops. More apparent dehydration anxiety, and possible hyponatremia. Returned to his room while I was retrieving the mop. Contacted Doctor Clarke, who informed me that he’ll visit the patient in the morning.”

On the computer screen, Jim Harper’s digital file has been copied to a Word document, apparently printed by Greg the night before. It’s a summation of his psychiatric condition and personal background. It reports, among other things, his Paranoid Schizophrenia diagnosis, his extreme fear of thirst (dehydration anxiety) with ongoing risk of hyponatremia requiring ongoing monitoring, and his persistent delusions of possessing a military history and always living in the desert.

‘Damnit, Greg,’ Dan thinks, ‘you should have confirmed that he was in his room before you left. And how did he get into the backyard?! They’re always lax on that rule, leaving the door ajar for the therapy dogs. And you know better than to leave confidential information up on the computer, Greg… Christ!’

Across the street at the lushly-appointed community park lined with maple trees and surrounded by rolling green grassy hills, the police fish Jim Harper’s drowned body out of the pond.