Foreverland Is Dead

look around, before saying, “We believe time goes faster in the dream.”
    Two red ATVs are parked in front of the brick house. People are inside, passing by the windows. They look more like Thomas than Linda.
    “You don’t have to do this.”
    “Where are they?”
    Linda holds her elbow lightly, let’s Cyn take the first step before guiding her around the garden, toward the dinner house. The outside kitchen door is closed. Cyn watches as they pass, expecting Mad to open it, shout at Jen to fetch the eggs.
    The chickens are dead.
    Cyn allows Linda to steer her around the front of the dinner house. They approach the bunkhouse. Thomas is waiting by the door. White trucks are next to the barn. The horses trot around the corner, along the fence. Cyn’s breath catches in her throat, waiting for Kat to call them into the barn for trimming.
    The wind harvesters turn like ornaments.
    Thomas opens the bunkhouse door.
    Cyn slows her gait, her breath coming in short bursts. Linda allows her to go at her own pace, half steps that occasionally stutter.
    She steadies herself on the doorway.
    Steps inside. Her balance betrays her, she reaches back to find Linda’s outstretched arm. Her heart slamming.
    The beds. The rafters.
    The girls.
    They lie on their backs, blankets up to their chest, arms at their sides. A wire protrudes from each of their foreheads, extending to the black box on the small table where there used to be candles and matches. Metal stands are posted at the end of each bed, decorated with a clear plastic bag and tubes attached their arms.
    “It’s exactly the same,” Cyn whispers.
    Linda lifts a hand at Thomas, stops whatever he’s thinking about doing. He walks past an empty bed, stares out the window at the barn, arms crossed.
    Cyn lets go of Linda, goes to her bed. The blankets are piled on the mattress. She pulls them back, revealing marks etched into the wall. She thought she scratched more than that, but then she realizes.
    The dream days aren’t there.
    But there are scratches. She put those there before they were trapped in the dream.
    The small table holds a black box like the others. A wire is coiled next to it, a needle submerged in a glass vial. Cyn holds it up to the light. The gel holds tiny bubbles around a needle that’s almost two inches long.
    She touches her head. Remembers the queer sensation when she awoke. When they slid the needle out.
    The floor teeters. Linda is by her side.
    Kat looks so peaceful, like a young girl waiting for Prince Charming. Her brown hair is only an inch long. Cyn runs her hand over her own head, her hair the same length.
    “Kathryn Landon,” Linda says.
    Of course her name isn’t Kat. Those tags were just abbreviations. Like property.
    “Kathryn was born in New Mexico. Her family worked on a ranch. Her mother died when she was young. Her father never reported her missing.”
    Mad is positioned in the same way as Kat, hands at her side, that disturbing wire protruding from the middle of her forehead.
    “Madeline Foreman, born in Florida, lived with her grandmother. When the grandmother died, Madeline’s whereabouts became unknown. And there’s Jennifer. That’s all we know about her. No last name. We suspect she was kidnapped in India, transported to the United States.”
    “She didn’t have an accent.”
    Thomas scribbles something. A clue, perhaps.
    Roc is lying on her side. Someone is massaging her legs with lotion.
    “We have a nursing staff tending the bodies to prevent bedsores.”
    Cyn winces. The bodies.
    “ Every couple of hours, they’ll get turned. Those beds are made of some special gel that helps reduce the risk, but lying for three weeks is a long time.”
    Roc’s arms are like the others, her tattoo partially visible. She’s bigger than Cyn recalls. Or maybe Cyn just feels smaller.
    “Her name is Rochelle Dandoval, last known whereabouts: Los Angeles. Her parents kicked her out of the house after she beat up her mother a few years ago.”
    The final bed is empty, the sheets tucked in and the wire coiled on the black box. Miranda woke up in the house, not the bunkhouse. She’s probably still up there.
    “Why’d you ask me for a password?” Cyn asks.
    “Just to be sure it was you.”
    “But I didn’t know the password.”
    “Exactly. But someone from someplace else would’ve given me one when I asked.” She glances at Thomas. “The men used passwords to identity each other when they returned from the dream. We were