“Sure. Why do you ask?” He held his breath, waiting for the reply. The dream he’d just had was the worst of them all. He thought of it as the Death Dream. The beginning of the dream was wonderful. He was with a woman, and they were madly in love. He’d never felt that kind of love in real life, hadn’t known it was possible to feel that connected to another human being. But the joy of being with her was ruined when they were interrupted by an angry man waving a gun. At the end of the dream, he held the woman and watched in horror as she died in his arms. The dream was devastating, and he always woke up feeling as if his heart had been ripped open. He could never see the woman’s face, but he knew he loved her more than life itself. When he’d told Dr. Jensen that particular detail, the good doctor had asked, “Why do you think you loved her?”
He’d shrugged and said, “Just a feeling I have,” but it was more of a certainty than a feeling. The real feeling of love made the raw terror of the dream even more horrifying. The dream was so real that he could feel the humid night air and the touch of her fingers against his cheek.
It should have been a relief to be awakened from the horror of the dream, but instead he woke up feeling like he’d abandoned the woman he loved.
He sat up and stretched. The car was idling, the radio playing a song about two kids named Jack and Diane. The contrast between this contemporary pop song and Howard, the aged attorney, didn’t escape him. Joe would have pegged him as a Big Band–era guy, not a fan of John Cougar. The lyrics said something about life going on even after the thrill of living was gone. That part fit anyway.
Judging from the alarmed expressions of the two oldsters staring at him from the front seat, they were ready to take him back to Trendale. He cleared his throat and gave a nervous chuckle. “Was I crying out, by any chance?”
Pearl frowned, her eyebrows knitting together. “You were making some god-awful noises. There were words too, but the only one I could make out was no.”
“It didn’t sound like your voice,” Howard said, his voice accusatory. Joe could see him as an attorney now, cornering someone on the witness stand by stating something emphatically, practically daring them to contradict him. “It sounded like someone else.”
Joe raised his hands like a magician. No tricks here. Nothing in my hands; nothing up my sleeves. “I’m the only one here, so it had to be my voice.”
Howard said, “It sounded deeper than your voice. And raspy, like you had a cold.”
Joe nodded. “I know what you’re saying. I’ve heard this before. I was having one of my troubling dreams. It’s one of the reasons I was at Trendale.”
There were four dreams in all. Even the nicer ones had a tinge of foreboding, and he’d always wake up with a sense of dread. He knew every dream by heart, every detail, every word uttered. As part of his therapy, Dr. Jensen had him write them all down, thinking that the transference of words to paper would lessen the dreams’ power over his subconscious. It didn’t. A few weeks later, he handed Joe a pen and a yellow pad, telling him to describe each dream again. Joe filled four pages with details, writing down everything he’d experienced. If Dr. Jensen was surprised that this version exactly matched what Joe had written down the first time, he didn’t let on.
Getting no response, Joe added, “I’m sorry if I scared you.”
Pearl shrugged. “I don’t scare that easily, so don’t you worry about that. I just hated to see you so distraught.” She turned to Howard. “Show’s over. Let’s get going.”
Howard steered the car off the side of the road and continued down the highway. Under his breath he muttered, “Not that anyone asked, but I found it scary.”
Joe rubbed his eyes and watched the landscape rush by. “Are we getting close?” He was starting to wonder what he’d signed up for. They could be taking him anywhere.
Pearl said, “Very close. Just a few more minutes and we’ll be home.”
Home. Maybe it was because of the intensity of the dream that his imagination headed into overdrive. It occurred to him that the birth certificates might be forgeries. What if this old couple was crazy and would hold him captive? And do what with him? he wondered. Ask for ransom, make him an indentured servant, use him for scientific experiments? What if they were part of a cult and were recruiting members? No one knew where he was going, he realized with alarm. Did the folks at Trendale even ask the old lady for ID? They must have, he reasoned. They were such sticklers for protocol and documentation at the facility; they would absolutely verify her story. For safety reasons, he made a mental note to be more attentive. Randomly falling asleep was not an option. If anything struck him as wrong, anything at all, he was bolting. It didn’t matter that he didn’t know precisely where they were going. He would walk or hitchhike, and once he found a phone, he’d call a friend or his folks to come and get him.