“You wrote this today?” he asks, still not looking up.
“It’s an assignment. For creative writing class.”
He looks up at me and starts to say something, but his jaw tightens and he clears his throat, like he’s having a hard time getting the words out.
“It’s really good,” he says. “The imagery is fantastic.”
I slide into the booth across from him, biting my lip so he won’t see just how pleased I am with his comment.
His eyes meet mine, and the sadness in his gaze pulls at me. For a moment, I’m back in my story, looking up at those green, green eyes.
“But this is more than a story. You remember this, don’t you?” he asks, pointing to the page.
My eyes flare, but I get a grip on myself. “It was based on a dream I had once.”
He closes the journal and stares down at it until the silence becomes uncomfortable. I’m not sure what else to say.
“I remember it, too,” he says softly. “I was there.”
“You think that really happened?” I play with the paper wrapper on the muffin, unsure if I really want to know.
“I’d read about a new treatment being offered at a university across town,” he says in a soft voice. “We didn’t have change for the bus. You said you were strong enough to walk. I didn’t realize how sick you really were.” He stops a moment, swallows hard, and goes on. “Your heart gave out before we got there.” His grief pulls at me, and I have to remind myself that this is not a well-balanced person I’m dealing with.
I can’t help myself. I reach across the table and cover his hand with mine, and he looks up, startled. Then he smiles a slow, genuine smile, and I pull my hand back. God, what was I thinking, leading him on?
“Finn,” I say, gently but firmly, “you have to realize that most people don’t believe that dreams are real. And I think you need to talk to someone about that.”
He stares at me. “You think I’m crazy.” It’s a statement, not a question, and an exasperated statement, at that.
“You have to admit, it’s not … normal.”
“You and I have an entirely different definition of ‘normal.’ And I can explain all of it to you if you’ll just let me.” He leans across the table. “Jessa, you are in danger.” He punctuates the last word with his finger thumping the table.
I shake my head. “You said that before, but—”
He sits back, hands splayed on the table, and lets out a huff of air. “This isn’t working,” he says to himself. “We’re running out of time. I’m going to have to do it.”
I look at him warily. “Do what?”
He gets to his feet. “I’ll see you tonight, Jessa.”
“I—I have plans,” I blurt out as he’s walking away.
Finn just shakes his head, as if he doesn’t care, and he keeps on walking.
He’s crazy. He’s honest-to-God crazy. He thinks my dream was real. There’s just one problem with that.
The additional backstory he supplied about my writing project is exactly the backstory I had in my head, as well.
When you wonder if you’re going crazy, doesn’t that make you not crazy?
I cling to that hope.
6
Mario
I’m sitting in a classroom, and it’s empty of students, except for me. The walls are an unrelieved white, without a poster or even a clock to break them up. In one corner is a bright red door, sticking out like a sore thumb. The teacher is a middle-aged man with dark, curly hair and a wide smile. He’s wearing a yellow polo shirt and khaki pants, and he’s perched on the corner of the desk with one leg swinging carelessly.
“Are you ready to begin, Jessa?” His voice is friendly, polite.
I glance up at a whiteboard on the wall behind him, but there’s no assignment to be seen. I look around for my backpack, and it’s nowhere to be found.
“I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be doing,” I finally say.
“Feeling lost without a notebook?” he asks sympathetically.
“Yeah.”
“There you go,” he says. “Feel free to take notes if you’re more comfortable that way.”
I glance down at the desk in front of me and flip open the Moleskine journal, sliding my pen from between the pages.
“Thanks, Mr.—” I look at him questioningly.
“Mario.” He smiles at me warmly. “Just call me Mario.”
“Thanks, Mario.”
“Don’t mention it.” He shifts back, pulling both legs off the floor, and sits squarely in the middle of his desk. He folds his arms over his chest and stares at me for a moment.
“So … Finn tells me you’re giving him a hard time.”
My head snaps up, and I stare back at him warily. “You know Finn?”
“He and I just met,” he tells me. “But you can’t really say the same, can you?”
“I—I don’t really know him,” I stammer.
“But you’ve been dreaming about him for quite a while,” he tells me. “Years.” He pushes himself off the desk. “Though you’ve only just made the connection in the last few months.”
I’m having a hard time getting words out of my suddenly dry throat. “How do you know that?”
“Because I know what you dream about. You’re dreaming right now.”
I look around me slowly. “I’m dreaming?”
He nods. “You’re dreaming.”
“Oh…” I close my notebook slowly. “This is … weird.”
“I’m going to explain everything, I promise.” He smiles at me again. “You might want to open the notebook back up,” he suggests. “This is going to take a while to explain.”
“Uh … sure,” I say, flipping the cover back and grabbing my pen. It doesn’t bother me that I’m dreaming. Part of my mind registers that this is going to make a really cool story. Might as well go with the flow.
“I’m here to speak with you because it’s time for you to learn what you are,” he tells me.
“And what is that?”
“You’re a Traveler,” he says,
