PROMPT – You get in bed, turn off your lights, rest your head on your pillow, and close your eyes. Instead of falling asleep, you see the message ‘CANNOT REST WHILE IN COMBAT’ floating in the darkness before you.

I should have been studying. Finals may happen around the same time every year, but there’s something about this being my – Eliza Rodriguez’s – last round at good old North Providence High School that took me by surprise. Let’s call it senioritis. Lord knows it’s better (and a bit more PG) than revealing to the world that 2018 also happened to be the year I made friends with a damn good weed guy.

I should have been drifting off on whatever mysterious adventure my subconscious had in store for me. Completely enveloped within that magical transition between being awake and enjoying the blissful release of sleep. Sleep that, dare I say, is as deserved as it is past due.

You know what? There are a lot of things that should be happening right now. What absolutely should not be on that list is the words ‘CANNOT REST WHILE IN COMBAT’ floating in the dark above my bed. The letters have a slight yellowish glow to them. Not too obnoxious, sure, but more than enough to keep me awake. Assuming, of course, that I was allowed any sleep at all. But that’s not how the rules work. Not in my house. No sooner do I notice the words than the whooshing sound of a pillow being whipped through the air reaches my ears. I roll aside in time to avoid the brunt of the blow, leaving my shoulder to absorb the rest.

“You paid me a great insult at dinner tonight,” a voice just a few octaves shy of a mezzo-soprano says. As much as Jacob likes to say his nine-year-old voice was getting deeper by the day, the rest of the house knows better. “According to the rules of our house you owe me justice!” The pillow comes down again, propelled by more force than you would have expected from a nine-year-old.

Remember how I mentioned it being finals season? Well I may not be the greatest at managing stress. I may also take after my father when it comes to not knowing when to bite my tongue. Mistakes happen. I deal with them. Sometimes that means a trial by combat with Sir Jacob the Thin-Skinned of House Bookworm.

Jacob’s second attack is better placed than his first and hits me square in the back.

I lunge for my pillow. Jacob swings again to try and stop me, but I grab my weapon before he can reach me. “You really want to do this?”

“It’s the only way to take back my honor,” Jacob says before launching a series of wild chops and overhead swings. Being his older sister doesn’t mean much. He might actually be swinging harder.

I lift my pillow and make it my shield, absorbing each blow. This isn’t our first rodeo. It basically became a sibling tradition once Jacob started reading every fantasy book he could get his fifth-grade-reading-level hands on. I don’t like something he does, pillow duel. He tries to skip out on chores, pillow duel.

“Come on. You have to know how annoying you were being.” I dodge a smaller pillow throw and retaliate with my own, catching the edge of his shirt but not by much.

“No I wasn’t!” Jacob shouts back. Hard to argue with such a classic defense. “I was talking to mom and you got jealous so you called me a –.” Any words hoping to leave his mouth were lost as my pillow connects squarely with his jaw.

If. Looks. Could. Kill.

“There,” I say. “I win.”

Jacob says nothing. He only stares.

“You know the rules,” I say, doing my best not to show fear. What? You haven’t seen him at his worst. The kid can get crazy.

Before I can make a move to defend myself my little brother charges. I throw away any hopes of staying on my feet and embrace the fall. It isn’t as hard as it looks. Jacob has the advantage and brings his pillow down again and again. I manage to get my arms in front of my face in time, keeping each swing from getting through. One point for the torso. Three for the head. Arms up means you give up. The rules may not mean much to Jacob at the moment, but I have a reputation to protect.

Jacob’s swings get slower. I count the seconds between each, not surprised to learn they’re taking longer. It’s only a waiting game now. So I wait. When my moment comes, I’m sure to seize it.

I reach for my pillow and bring it around just hard enough to push Jacob off of me, but not enough to do any real damage. It took a few months to get the mix right. My social life is incredibly grateful. Unfortunately for Jacob, that means he has no chance. Knocking him aside isn’t enough. I need to win without any shadow of a doubt. I take up my pillow in both hands, swing it round and round over my head, and stick my foot under his nose.

“No!” Jacob’s plea is cut short and muffled as he tries anything and everything he can think of to get away. When pushing me doesn’t work, he tries his pillow. When that doesn’t work, he resorts to other, less honorable tactics.

I don’t feel his teeth. Not at first. Despite plenty of examples to the contrary, Jacob knows how to be patient. And my socks don’t keep me safe forever. I hold back a scream and yank my foot away, hopping a few steps before giving up and falling to the floor alongside my younger brother.

After a few moments of silence and heavy breathing, both of us working to catch our breaths, I turn to Jacob and say, “I’m pretty sure mom went to the library.”

“What’d she get?” Jacob asks, his guard still up.

“It looked like The Hobbit,” I say.

“Really?” Jacob asks. Any hint of agitation or sense of righting such a heinous wrong vanished.

“Yup. Saw it on the coffee table tucked under her purse.”

“You know I haven’t read that one yet,” Jacob says.

“I know,” I say.

Jacob was quiet for a minute, the host of ideas and potential for the night ahead of him practically broadcast all over his face. “Do you think mom and dad would mind if we stay up a bit later so we can read it?”

“Not the whole thing,” I say. “But I don’t see how they can say no to a chapter or two.” I wait another minute before adding, “I’m sorry for saying you were –.”

“It’s okay,” Jacob says, not waiting for me to finish. “I guess I was being kind of annoying.”

“I could have asked a bit nicer.”

“You could have, yeah,” Jacob says, and I toss my pillow at him.

“Jerk,” I say, not even trying to hold back a laugh.

“You said the book is on the coffee table?” Jacob asks.

I nod. “Last I saw it, yeah.”

“What are we waiting for?” Just like that, as quickly as he appeared, pillow in hand, Jacob was halfway down the hall.

So maybe I won’t get as much sleep as I’d like. My Tuesday night wasn’t a total waste. I’ll never say it to the little goob myself, but in a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort.

And also kind of sort of the place I’ve wanted to live in since my mom first read the book to me. The two of us huddled under the covers, flashlight gleaming, Come to think of it, I was around the same age as Jacob.