Foreverland Is Dead

pillow.
    And then it’s back to the ledge.
    Back to running.
    Wondering, Who’s the dreamer?
    Who am I?

37

    Cyn sits up. “How many days have I been in bed?”
    “Seven,” Kat says.
    “A week?”
    “Ain’t lying.”
    Kat points at the wall. New scratches are on the wall. The girls kept track of the days while she dozed. The days blend together. Those pills are sledgehammers.
    The shivers are gone. The sheets are dry.
    She throws the covers off, the stench of dead skin and infection wafting out, and gently puts her feet on the floor. The wounds are oozy, but the swelling is down.
    Kat rattles the bottle. “Last of this bottle. Hope you don’t relapse or we’ve got to experiment with another bottle and hope we get lucky.”
    Cyn works up enough spit to swallow them. There’s fresh snow on the ground, about six inches on the dinner house. The old man and Sid are visible through the window. Jen, too.
    “You want to eat?” Kat asks. “Mad’s almost got supper ready.”
    “No. I think I’ll go for a little walk. I need to get out of this nasty bed. If I don’t make it over to eat, tell the old man I want to talk in the morning.”
    “Why not now?”
    “Got to think about some things.”
    Not a lot made sense in the delirium, but maybe Cyn needs to hear more about this dream experiment. She doesn’t want to even think about listening to that crap, but unless a helicopter drops into the meadow, Prince Charming isn’t coming.
    It can’t hurt to hear more about this gate.
    “Jen’s feeding the old man and the kid,” Kat says. “They wait in the barn and she takes food out when she thinks we ain’t looking.”
    “Figured she would,” Cyn says.
    “That’s what I said. Now we’re just letting them eat with us, Cyn. Hard to watch them starve, you know.”
    Cyn doesn’t answer. Kat leaves her at the window.
    She watches them through the windows. They eat supper, but it’s not much. The old man looks up from the table, sees her. Cyn moves a little too quickly, pain lancing her hamstrings. She probably shouldn’t be walking, but she’s got to get out of the bunkhouse, even for a little bit. Her body is sore.
    She moves slowly, walks out to the barn. The horses are anxious, their hide pulled between their ribs. She sits on a bench, admiring the mountains, recalling what he’d said.
    Rich and detailed. Not a thing missing.
    Can this really be a dream? She turns her hands over, rubs them on her thighs. Her pulse bounces in the backs of her feet.
    She comes back to the bunkhouse when she’s shivering and climbs into bed as her fever rises. She throws the covers over her head, pretending to be asleep when the girls come back. The stove crackles with heat. The last person in fastens the homemade deadbolt on the door, knowing that even the old man could kick it open if he wanted.
    They wouldn’t wake up if he did.

    In the morning, Cyn’s feet ache.
    Her socks are wet.
    Fresh ink on her fingers.
    She gives up. Please, let this be a dream.
    If the old man is right, there’s hope that they can wake up. And maybe waking up is their only hope. If not, she’s doomed. They all are.
    Cyn struggles to get out of bed, wincing while getting dressed, but she sweats through the agony. The crutches creak under her weight. She opens the door without waking anyone, which is good. She wants to talk with the old man alone, still not convinced that he’s sane. If there’s a gate out of here, they can find it.
    She limps through the snow, stops on the front porch, catching her breath. It’s completely dark inside the dinner house.
    The stove is cold.
    The brick house is lit up.
    The shutters are open, lights illuminating every window both upstairs and down. She holds on to the post and knows, before even opening the door, that the old man and Sid aren’t inside the dinner house.

38

    She’s seen enough. Heard enough.
    Miranda waits until dark. She turns on the cameras, watches their eyes grow heavy, checks each of them twice before rolling the chair to the keyboard.
    She punches a button. ‘YES’ or ‘NO’.
    Miranda takes a deep breath.
    Clicks the mouse.
    A rumble rides through the house. She flinches each time a shutter slides across a window, snapping inside the brick wall. Like dominoes, they clack one by one until it’s quiet. Dust floats down from the ceiling. String instruments bellow from the front room.
    The girls haven’t moved, eyes dancing in REM. Flood lights illuminate the dead garden.