Dreams begin as they usually do: without prologue or preamble, merely in the middle of an activity one would hope was pleasant or at the very least interesting.

Alaska Burns does not dream, not for a while. Maybe, when the shadowlings wrap gentle tendrils around her shoulders and arms or when the horsemen croon soft, arrogant laughter into the crevices of her neck, she recounts the moments in her mind as she sways in and out of consciousness, but they are quickly forgotten the morning next. She does not dream after Nevada died. She whispers those words to herself like a charm that can ease the grainy noise humming in the back of her brain.

She does not dream, so it’s logical to believe—hopefully, ignorantly, desperately, angrily—that she has always been this young, still a child on the cusp of adolescent-adulthood and ready to face the daunting world that is high school. It’s not a difficult task for a star pupil like herself. If she believes in her determination and smarts she will weather any storm, any traps or riddles or monsters the teachers decide to throw at her. She was—is—the brightest student of her middle school, the starring player on her basketball team, the apple of many students’ eyes. She is perfection wrapped up in a soft face and meticulously-groomed brown curls.

Slender fingers with carefully-painted nails spin the plain straw in her cup of orange juice. Her eyes are a natural brown that match her hair, but they gleam eagerly at the girl sitting across the dining table. Her cereal is nearly finished, reduced to a pool of white milk and colored flecks of what remains of her cheerios. Alaska pulls her red-tinted lips into the kind of subdued smile that exudes enough charm and innocence to capture the attention of even the senior jocks, enough shine and sparkle to force even the stone-cold hearted students into swooning lumps of mass on the linoleum floor.

“Hey, Nevada.” She leans over to brush a stray strand out of the other girl’s face. Her eyes scan her twin from head to toe as if she hasn’t done it already multiple times since they’ve both sat down for breakfast. She lets her hand linger, floating up to attempt to soothe the strands of hair jutting out of the girl’s hair at peculiar angles. Alaska begins to frown when her sister’s bedhead refuses to budge. “I told you not to sleep with your hair wet.”

She scolds gently, brimming with affection as she leans back and picks up her bowl to drink the remaining milk. Her gaze flickers back to Nevada when she speaks, and the excuse is expected, but no less annoying.

“It’s important to make a good impression on the first day of school.” She almost pouts, which deflates quickly at the easygoing smile that adorns her twin’s face.

Something swims in the corners of Alaska’s vision, but she thinks little of it. Alaska crinkles her eyes as she continues easy conversation; the words seem to flow out of her mouth like the babbling water of a gentle stream. They do not cease—not for long, at least—and move at an easy pace, and talks without a care in the world.

Her attention rests easily on her sibling. It never wavers, even when something seems to prickle the top of her hand. It is a gentle feeling, a tickle, but it brushes her skin one too many times and she attempts to swat whatever it is.

And suddenly she’s staring at an arm covered in wriggling darkness. Eyes glow dark red, and the kitchen seems to flicker like an old, decrepit television. One moment the room is white, and the next the floor disappears beneath them to reveal dirt and glowing blue and sharp sounds.

nononoNONONO—

Not this again. She wasn’t going to have this again.

Do you really?

…

If you just make a wish…

Just a small one.

Just one.

…

…

Dreams begin as they usually do—in the middle of a thought or gesture, of words broken midsentence.

She thinks she’s in a dream when she stumbles out of an unfamiliar, cramped room. The sheets reek of sweat and a white coat drapes over her scrawny shoulders. Eyes turn wide and searching as she examines each door, identical from the last and next.

She’s trying not to scream when she remembers she doesn’t lucid dream.