the area with a bright white searchlight, was as silent as the grave. Not a footstep, nothing.
Another flash of light—the shadow of the center divider stood out sharply against the blacktop for a moment. Two white circles of light stood out in the shadow, and I turned my head to see the two holes bored through the cement on either side. Ignoring a shrill, naggy caution-voice in my head that sounded more like me than I cared for, I crawled to the closest hole. I took a deep, slow breath, trying to clear my gut of the rampaging butterflies, and peeked through the hole.
Light burned my eyes—it was impossible to make out any of the thing’s features. He looked to be made of light—just sunshine sculpted with arms and legs. His head seemed to be turned away from me, but it was impossible to tell. It wasn’t until a searing beam of light erupted from his face and swept the highway to the left of me that I was sure.
It flashed toward me, and I threw myself away from the hole. I looked behind me—the same clear-cut shadow of the center divider, with two perfectly circular holes. I let out another whoosh of breath and tried not to move.
When the light moved on, I took another peek to make sure. It hadn’t seen me. It swept the highway to my right with slow, even strokes.
After what felt like an eternity, the white-thing turned and disappeared over the sand ridge.
I counted to one-hundred, and then I stood up.
Empty again. Just a dead highway snaking through a grey wasteland.
I crossed the center divider and ran across the blacktop. I had to know if it was gone. I jumped over the guard rail and ran full tilt up the gravel and sand slope, ignoring the glass-grinding scream in my ankle.
A boom. The ground jerked beneath me and threw me onto my butt.
“What the hell?” I said.
Again, the not-an-echo. Just muffled silence.
I half-ran half-slid down the rest of the sandy hill until I found my bare feet slapping the wet charcoal-colored sand. I stopped at the edge, the first tickle of frigid water kissing my toes. I bent over and stretched my fingers toward the tide.
The ocean pulled away from me, as if taking a breath. A wave gathered along the breakers and swung toward the shore. It peaked long before reaching me, spilling out across the beach and pushing a foot of water towards my legs. It touched my hand first, then sluiced over my battered ankle and up to my knees.
It could have been acid.
The wave of searing agony, so powerful and unexpected, imparted by the water’s touch, locked my entire body. Paralyzed me, freezing me helpless and screaming as the angry tide slid up to my waist, then to my neck. My muscles wouldn’t respond, and I realized with deep horror that my legs couldn’t withstand the assault. My knees buckled, plunging my face into the scalding liquid. It flooded up my nostrils, rushed into my shrieking mouth…
The world went black.
Chapter Five
The sound cut out. The hollow hiss of an open microphone with no one behind it.
Lights flickered. My eyes didn’t have to open—they already were. But they sort of turned on again. The blackness disappeared like I’d flipped a switch.
An acoustic ceiling above me.The flash of TV-light.
Then touch—A hard floor beneath me. Moisture.
Sound—A bad sitcom, an aghast 20-something rambling.The gentle click of my mother’s grandfather clock. The rattle-clank noise of pots and pans.
Smell—Garlic. Baked chicken, a single open beer, roasted tomatoes. More than I should smell, I realized. The reality ship had thrown me overboard, and dragged me back onto the deck with equal violence. I gasped for breath, my tongue still wet with salt water.
I looked down. My clothes were soaked through, and the barely-decent date attire was now entirely not- decent. Scandalous, even. Though my wet-rat look was less noticeable than the fact that I was drenched in sea water. A small pool of it collected on the floor beneath me. The idea of it all being a dream died in a briny grave.
“Shit,” I whispered. I didn’t have a better word. I was becoming quite the little sailor.
“Luce?”
“Nothing,” I said. “I’m gonna go change. And shower.”
“Good idea,” Mom said, her voice drifting in from the kitchen. “Dinner’s in thirty.”
“Gotcha,” I said, hoping to disguise my panic. “Won’t take long.”
I glanced around, then back down at the spreading pool of saltwater on the living room floor. I felt a strange sense of vertigo—the room stretched out like taffy. The Persian-looking gold and red throw rug swirled in strange patterns. I closed my eyes and waited for the dizziness to pass. I half-expected the water to be gone when my eyes popped open again.
No such luck. The pool, spreading across the hard-wood floor, began to kiss the tassels of the rug. I turned around, searching for something, anything. My grandma’s hand-sewn gold afghan stretched across the back of the couch.
The floor still shined, but the majority of the water clung to the blanket. I spun the afghan into a ball, clutched it tight to me to minimize dripping, and shuffled down the hall. My weakened ankle almost gave out as I ran up the stairs, but I threw myself up the final steps to the top landing. I half-crawled, half-scrambled to my room, ripped open the door, and slammed it behind me.
I took a huge breath. My lungs stretched and creaked and it felt like my ribs would pop.
In my bathroom, I tossed the afghan in the sink and pushed it down until it was mostly wrung-out. The grey, briny water smelled just like the ocean in the Not-A-Dream.
I stripped out of the soaking, torn clothes I had been wearing for nearly twenty-four hours. I’d been chased, shot, lost, and drowned in them, but I still couldn’t bring myself to toss them in the trash.
I wrung everything out, soaked it in lilac moisturizing body wash, and scrubbed the bejeezus out of it. The beach stink was strong, but a few soaks and scrubs later and it was barely noticeable. I hung the outfit and the blanket from the hooks on my door and took a shower.
I’d never taken a better shower. When I came out of it, my cherry-red skin felt amazing, and my muscles were warm putty. I dried off, blow-dried my hair, and wrapped myself in my fluffy orange bathrobe. I walked into my fluffy orange sandals and dived across my bed.
Twenty-minutes later, drifting at the edge of consciousness, wrapped in the warm cocoon of my bathrobe and my covers, I heard my door rattle in its frame. I perked up, and my eyes began to focus.
“Luce?”
“Come in.”
Mom slid the door open, wearing a small, understanding smile.
“Feel better?”
“Loads,” I said. “Dinner?”
“Yup.”
She didn’t move though, and her hand still gripped my door handle with white-knuckled strength. I cocked my head and sat up slowly. I wanted to ask her if everything was okay, but her face answered the question for me.
Her eyes turned down, but I could see the crystal sheen of tears there. She took a breath that sounded like canvas ripping. The door slammed into the wall as she released it without thinking, and she flashed across the
