I remember Jack. He was the camper who screamed in his sleep from 1:30 until 5:30, at precise hourly intervals, a regular cuckoo clock of a kid. The first time he screamed, I thought an anaconda had got him, was squeezing the life out of his puny body, and with his last breath he had desperately pleaded for assistance from me, his almighty counselor. I vaulted out of bed with flashlight in hand.

The instant I turned it on, Jack stopped screaming. Actually, at the time I did not know the screamer was Jack. I walked around the cabin, shining the beam on each of the 12 campers, all of whom looked fast asleep. It reminded me of the wet spring nights in Gig Harbor. There, the frogs constantly croak and chirp outside the windows, then fall silent and remain hidden when you stumble outside, Maglight in hand, ready to send the little green buggers flying into the trees behind your house, where hopefully a tomcat will finish them off.

But I rarely find those frogs. And I wasn't in my house in Gig Harbor, Washington. I was counseling at Big Lake Youth Camp, near Sisters, Oregon, during Adventure Camp, which means 7- to 9-year-old campers. I checked my alarm clock. 1:30 a.m. There were no anacondas in the cabin. I went back to bed.

The second time Jack screamed he provided some insight into why he was thus vocalizing.

"It's dark. I can't see," he informed us, after he finished screaming.

"It's dark...," he continued to whimper, until I flipped on my flashlight, after which all was silent. I still didn't know it was Jack who had screamed. I looked at my alarm clock. 2:30 a.m.

The third time Jack screamed, I figured out it was him, because in addition to screaming, he also tossed, turned, bumped into the wall, then rolled the other way until he rolled off his bunk. I shot the beam over in the direction of the bump, and there was Jack. He blinked, wide awake, when I came to assist him back onto his bunk.

"I'm okay," he said, after I asked if he was.

"Do you feel a little scared?" I asked.

"No," he replied.

"Well, your screams make it sound like you're frightened of something."

"I'm not screaming," he said, and climbed back onto his bunk, into his sleeping bag, and fell back asleep. The time was 3:30 a.m.

I also went back to bed, but by now I was scared, scared to sink into the consciousness where the thoughts and senses from the world of reality and the world of dreams overlap, where I cannot only lie in a bunk at Big Lake Youth Camp, but also sit in the driver's seat of a customized Honda S2000 (I drive a stock Civic); where I can not only toss and turn in a stuffy sleeping bag, but also drift and skid across fresh asphalt on an empty boulevard (Big Lake Youth Camp has bark chips and gravel roads); where I can not only hear the wails and screams of illegal slick tires, but also the wails and screams of Jack.

The time was 4:30 a.m. This time I stayed on my bunk and shined the flashlight in the general direction of the noise, which caused Jack's screaming to stop. After a minute I flipped off the flashlight. Jack remained silent. I slept for an hour more. At 5:30 I repeated the process. At 6:30 I woke the campers for worship, mumbling something about joy that cometh in the morning, and welcome to another day of camp.

Kevan Lim is a junior at the University of Puget Sound in Tacoma, Wash.