Until the big four-wheel-drive with no driver flipped on its brights and tried to mow us all down.
I ran.
We all did.
Though we didn’t get very far. Unlike the last dream, in this one, my feet didn’t so much sink as stick. The freshly mowed grass turning into a goopy, green, superglued mess that held fast to the bottoms of our shoes, refusing to release us, refusing to free us. Even the ones who’d stepped out of their shoes were no better off—they’d merely replaced the soles of their shoes with the soles of their feet.
All I could do, all any of us could do, was stare helplessly into the truck’s headlights as it ran us all down.
At the moment of impact, there was an amazing flash of bright light, and the next thing I knew, I was in Paris, a city I’d always wanted to visit. But instead of sightseeing and riding the elevator to the top of the Eiffel Tower, I was drowning in the River Seine along with a group of loitering teenagers.
Then, the next thing I knew, I was in Brazil, only instead of spending a nice day baking in the sun, I was being roasted for real—a young girl, two boys, and me going up in flames on a Rio de Janeiro beach.
I suffered through nightmares in all of the most exotic places. Places I’d always wanted to visit. Then just as I began longing for home, my wish was granted. I found myself in school—my old school—standing in front of my old class. And when I gazed down at myself, wondering what they were all pointing and laughing about, well, that’s when I realized I’d forgotten to dress.
I froze, figuring I’d die right there on the spot of complete mortification—but then a second later I found myself wearing a cute purple dress I definitely approved of, while sitting at a desk in that very same class. Concentrating hard on the paper before me—part of a very important, grade-making test—unable to read, much less answer, even one single question, all of the words swimming before me in a big, foggy blur.
I raised my hand, about to ask if I could get a new test, explain that there was something wrong with the one that I had—when I saw that my teacher wore the face of a clown, and the body of a black widow spider. Her eight legs and arms trapping me in her web, gazing upon me as though I was dinner.
I screamed.
I railed.
I fought as hard as I could—but it didn’t do the slightest bit of good.
I was devoured by insects.
I was buried alive.
I was chased by knife-wielding zombies who snacked on my brains.
Every scene was different—but, in the end, it was all the same thing. Every time a nightmare ended, a new one jumped into its place. It was one assault after another—one terrifying experience quickly followed by the next.
Some were normal fears—some were outrageous—but all of them penetrated to the deepest part of me.
I’d died once in real life—but as long as I was up on that stage, I’d die many more times, in much worse ways.
And the worst part was, there was nothing I could do to stop it. Nothing I could do to make it go away.
All I could do was go with it.
Blend in.
Act my little heart out and let the dreamer decide when to say when.
So completely terrified by the circumstances, it took me a while to realize there was no actual dreamer.
The last five scenes had starred only me.
But no matter how hard I screamed—no matter how hard I fought to break character, to “wake up”—no matter how much I risked Satchel’s good opinion of me—it didn’t do the least bit of good.
The nightmares continued to loop.
The projector continued to whir.
And each new scene I was thrust into was far worse than the one that went before.
I was trapped.