by K.M. Weiland
Part of him shouted this was the craziest thing he had done yet. But he hadn’t asked for the dreams. He didn’t want the dreams. In the pills in his hand, a possible return to sanity stared up at him. If he could get out from under these dreams, he could change his life. No, he would change his life.
He lifted his hand and tilted his head back. The pills fell to the back of his throat, and he chugged the water. After a few minutes, his head began to feel as if it were stuffed with cotton.
“Did they tell you in your dream how this is supposed to work?” Mactalde asked.
“Whatever’s touching me when I fall asleep crosses over.”
“Simple enough. Go ahead and lie down, make yourself comfortable.”
Brain humming, he lay back, his head against a maroon pillow.
Mactalde brought a chair over to the couch. “Thank you,” he said. He took off his coat, sat down, and began rolling up his sleeves.
The vibration from the Orimere crawled up Chris’s arm and into his head, rattling through the pain from his concussion. His ears started to ring. “For what?”
“This is an extraordinary day for me.” Mactalde gripped his wrist. “Should I be so fortunate as to rewrite history, I will certainly remember your name.”
A black mist crept across Chris’s vision. “Rewrite history? What do you mean?”
“Well,” Mactalde’s voice turned golden, “it isn’t every day a man gets to rise from the dead. Is it?”
