Page 41 of Ex Somnis

“That’s…” Paul exhales slowly through his nose and sets the watering can down harder than necessary. “Fine. But do it gently.”

“I’m always gentle.”

He looks down at his still ruined shirt. “Clearly.”

“I’ll fix it before I go.”

“You won’t.”

A leaf drops off one of the plants behind him.

“You’re right.” I shrug. “I won’t.”

I’m about to stand, already reaching for the edge of the dream when Paul says, “I’m moving Lennon to my house.”

That stops me in my tracks. “Your house?”

“Mrs. Vaughn agreed. She’ll continue receiving care there. It gives me direct access to my research materials, and I can monitor her condition more effectively, and it gives you access as well.”

“Access,” I repeat carefully when I finally stand.

“To visit or stay, if necessary.”

Oh.

“Your room is still ready for you. I haven’t changed it,” he continues before I can say anything. “The only thing missing is the stairlift, but I can have that installed.”

“Your room is still ready for you.”

That’s probably going to haunt me for the next several decades.

“I mean…” For the first time tonight, Paul actually looks faintly uncertain. “The offer stands, if you want it.”

I stare at his unsure gaze, and against my will, my brain drags up the memory of a conversation from years ago. Me complaining about wanting to escape my family before they wrapped me in bubble wrap and medically supervised concern for the rest of my life, him talking about how he could use a roommate, since the house was too big for one person anyway.

“To be closer to Lennon,” I say slowly.

“Yes.” He doesn’t look at me when he says it.

I look away, too, before he can see whatever crossed my face just then.

“Then we have a plan.” I step back toward the edge of the dream. “You bring Sleeping Beauty home, and I’ll make sure her emotional support golden retriever shows up on schedule.”

“Don’t traumatize him,” Paul warns.

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” I wink at him, already letting myself fall backward, out of his immaculate white dreamscape…

…and straight into Nevan’s endless sea of clouds.

Nevan sits on a swing suspended in nothing, drifting lazily through the cloudscape, one foot dragging through the air, apparently just there. Existing.

Good for him.

“Nevan.”

He looks up immediately, his face lighting up in that open, unguarded way that tells me he is absolutely not lucid.

“Ridge! Hey.” He shifts slightly on the swing, steadying it. “Everything all right?”