I woke up, rubbed the sleep from my eyes. I checked the digital alarm clock—it said 6:00 A.M. It was morning. I looked around.
Things seemed … different.
Granted, I still had that morning bleariness about my vision, but still, everything seemed … off, somehow. I couldn’t explain what it was, but … everything I looked
at—the lamp, the nightstand—each seemed … different, somehow. Not in any way that immediately leaped out at you—a new color, a missing piece—but still …
I pushed it away. It wasn’t possible for everything to be different; there must be something wrong with me.
Then, I remembered.
The fire the other night! The little girl! Of course!
No wonder everything seemed strange—slightly … off, somehow. My subconscious must have been nagging me from the second I woke up.
Which meant it probably wasn’t a dream. Probably—I couldn’t discount the possibility. My memories were a little disjointed, and the whole thing was so weird—a
burning house, rescuing a little girl, bringing her home instead of taking her to the hospital. I remembered now that—either in the dream, or for real last night—I had
only planned to lay down for a moment, before calling the cops or someone—but of course, like an idiot, I fell asleep.
If it hadn’t been a dream.
My eyes chanced upon my jacket, which I had thrown over the chair before lying down.
It was covered in soot and ash.
O.K., not a dream.
Well, then, in that case, I needed to get that little girl to the authorities. I wondered if I would be in any serious trouble for not doing it immediately. I could tell them the
truth—that she was shrieking and crying and I had just taken her home to calm her down, then fell asleep. They still wouldn’t be very happy with me, but I probably
wouldn’t be in any serious trouble. Still, I fretted.
That was even considering that I could get her to agree to go. There was no guarantee that she would be any more cooperative this morning than last night. I sighed,
thinking that I might face the same panicked reaction as before—because I knew that, no matter what, I couldn’t let her convince me not to take her to the hospital, or
some such place.
I pushed back the blankets, and poked my legs out. I pushed off for the short hop to the floor.
I experienced vertigo as I took a sudden fall.
It was short, quick, and I landed on my feet—but it was very unsettling. It was … I don’t know, as though my bed had suddenly been hiked up a few feet during the
night.
And why were my pants around my ankles?
At least they weren’t lonely—my shirt reached down that far.
For that matter, why did my sleeves cover my hands?
I kicked off my oversized pants, and struggled my way to the full-length bedroom mirror.
(I swear, it came with the house when I moved in.)
I got the shock of my life.
A three year-old kid, wearing a grown-up’s shirt that swamped him, was reflected back at me.
I stared at the image. The kid looked at me from that mirror with the shock I was sure I must be feeling.
This isn’t real, I told myself. This is a dream. This HAS to be a dream.
I struggled to pull back the sleeve of one arm, to free my arm. I managed to poke my hand out of the other one. I pinched myself. Hard.
I stifled a cry of pain. It hurt!
I slapped myself across my little face. It hurt again!
I started to panic. This isn’t real. This can’t be real.
My bedroom door opened. I turned.
The little girl was standing there—Little? She had to be about 5 years older than me, now.
She opened her mouth, and said …