How he managed to avoid smashing his head into the nightstand is a mystery to me (as is the question of what 39-year-old man still falls out of bed in the middle of the night).
Because I am drama-prone and often engage in what psychiatrists refer to as "catastrophizing," (how comforting to know there's a name for the way I spend my days here on earth) I immediately assumed he'd suffered a massive heart attack and died.
I dove across the bed to find him face down and motionless on the floor. "OH MY GOD, LARE, ARE YOU OKAY? I screamed. For at least three or four seconds he moved nothing, said nothing.
The longest three or four seconds of my life.
Then, finally, his voice:
"What happened?" I said.
"I was trying to stand up."
"I had to."
I waited for more information, steeling myself for a grave medical emergency.
"The naked natives were coming, and they were going to kill us," he said. "I was really scared!!"
I watched wide-eyed as he tucked himself back into bed.
"We were lucky, though," he said, pulling the covers up to his chin. "We had guns. And the naked natives only had spears."
Well, I thought. That is quite a relief. I shudder to think what might have happened if the naked natives had been fully armed.