Page 11 of Lucky 14

“I… We need to call 911.” But I feel frozen, hands not moving even though I want them to.

The landscaping guy gives me an angry look. “Why was he in here? He was supposed to be going home after he fell and hit his head.” He turns back. “Bill! Wake up.”

Hit his head.

All-consuming dread fills me, icing my veins and holding me still. Hit his head. He hit his head and was puking. Concussion. If he doesn’t get help, he could die.

Hands shaking, I try to dial 911. Only, my phone won’t let me swipe out of my bank app, and it feels like I’m moving through sticky glue. My heart races, and panic crawls up my throat. Why won’t this work?

Time seems to slow. Nothing I try works. My phone won’t even turn off.

Nothing is working. The man needs help, and I can’t get it.

Panic narrows my vision. He needs help. Fuck, work!

“This is all your fault!”

Someone is yelling, but I don’t know who.

“He’s dead!”

I want to smash my hands over my ears. It’s happening again. All over again, and I can’t stop it. Suddenly, my vision blacks out, and it feels like I’m swimming in nothingness. I spin there, dizzy, until the world comes to a stop again.

When I open my eyes, I’m not in the office, and it’s a lot colder. I blink, looking around. White walls surround me, with doors dotted along them. A cool breeze brushes past my arms, and I glance down.

I’m in my blue pajamas.

Confusion muddies the thoughts in my brain. What is going on? Wasn’t I in the office?

The concrete digs into my feet, and I shiver. I’m in my apartment complex, but I’m a building away from my own. I can tell by the dim light from the end of the hall that it’s dark outside.

Slowly, memories trickle in. Eating dinner, drinking wine, then going to bed.

Holy shit. I sleepwalked again.

Residual panic traces through me, and I whirl, racing back to my apartment. Was it all a dream?

My apartment is unlocked. I go inside, slamming the door and locking it. The familiar smells of drywall and sourdough bread greet me.

Fuck. It was a dream.

Trembling, I go to the kitchen for a glass of water. I down it, then fill it up and immediately drink another, fingers curling against the glass.

Jesus Christ, I thought these were getting better.

My heart still races, the deep fear of the dream lingering. The fear always lingers. Just like the dream always stays the same: someone dies. It was all my fault.

Checking my bank account, I have no issues logging in and find my balance is what I expect. That slows my shaking fingers a little.

No one’s dead. It’s not my fault, and no one’s dead.

The next day, my heart flutters as I round the last flight of stairs to my apartment, bags of groceries in hand. I die for breath as I juggle around to grab my keys and insert them in the lock. The key turns easily, almost too easily, but I ignore it as I push into my apartment, immediately dropping the bags.

“Fucking hell,” I puff for breath, then frown. I shouldn’t be breathing this hard from going up stairs. My solution is to try to breathe normally, which just makes my chest feel tight, and I end up gasping for air anyway because my couch and I have had way more dates than my gym and I have.

So I have a thing for rest, and stairs take me out. No big deal. My job doesn’t require me to be an Olympic athlete.

Thank god. I’d quit so fast.