Dreamland

The lobby was painted the same dingy gray as the exterior. It was hardly larger than Dea’s hospital room had been, and it stank of burned coffee. There were holes in the carpet. A guy, maybe twenty or twenty-one, his face an explosion of pimples and scars, was sitting behind the desk, hunched over his phone. He barely looked up when Co

“What’s up?” he said.

“We need a room.” Co

The guy squinted at Co

“Old enough,” Co

The guy sighed, like they were being a big pain in the ass. “IDs?”

Co

Dea jumped in, “Look, we just want to get in and get out. All cash. No trouble.” She’d seen her mom do this hundreds of times. No trouble, please, will you make an exception? Just for us, just this once. And a fifty would pass hands, palm to sweaty palm, and that would be that. Dea had tucked the envelope of cash into the waistband of her leggings, under her sweatshirt. She removed it now, making sure that the guy behind the desk was looking. He was. His expression shifted, turned eager, calculating.

“Cash?” he said. He licked his lips, which were very thin. Dea nodded. “It’s go

Co

“I don’t have change,” the guy said. Another lie. His face was the color of ketchup. Even his pimples seemed inflamed.

“Just give us the key,” Co

“Seventeen.” The guy slid a small metal key across the counter. “Make a left out the door and go all the way to the end. You’ll have lots of privacy,” he added, with a smile Dea didn’t like.

She grabbed the key. “Thanks.”

Outside, Dea wobbled a little in her too-small heels and Co

They had to walk past the room where they’d seen the man and woman together. The curtain was now totally shut, but as they approached, Dea heard a headboard knocking against the wall and the sound of a woman moaning. She could feel her whole body blush.

“Very theatrical,” was all Co

Shockingly, the room was all right. Clean, at least. The TV didn’t work and the shower curtain was speckled with mold, but the beds were made with fresh sheets and the smell of cigarette smoke had been mostly obliterated under the acrid tang of bleach and something thick and floral, like the kind of scent people sprayed in public bathrooms. There were two double beds. Dea was relieved and also a teeny, tiny bit disappointed.

Co

“Now what?” Co

Dea nodded. She had told him in the car that she needed back into his dreams, although she hadn’t told him the whole truth: she didn’t know how much longer she could make it without walking.

Now, he kicked off his Vans, one at a time, and stretched backward on the bed with his arms folded behind his neck. But he didn’t close his eyes, and he didn’t turn off the lights. She’d never tried to walk a dream with the knowledge—participation, even—of the dreamer. She wondered whether it would change things.

Dea forced herself to move away from the door. She felt awkwardly tall, standing in her heels while he was lying down. She went to the second bed and sat. The mattress was flimsy and sagged under her weight. “Do you think your parents will be worried about you?”

Co

She felt guilty that she had ever envied Co

“What about school tomorrow?” It was either Tuesday or Wednesday; Dea knew that. “You’ll get in trouble.”

Co

“What do you mean?” Dea was sure—sure—it wasn’t a weekend. She’d kept track in the hospital as best she could, and she couldn’t be that far off.

“It’s break,” Co

She had completely forgotten. She’d been pulling herself through the hours one by one, like a snail tracking slowly across asphalt, taking it inch by inch.

“I’m sorry,” she said. She really was.

“For what?”

She looked away. It was nice of him to pretend she didn’t have to apologize, which made her feel even guiltier. “For dragging you into this. For getting you in trouble.” She was, too. Sorrier than she could ever say. “I’m sorry you’re missing Thanksgiving.”

“That’s all right.” Co

This made her smile. For a second, he sounded like the old Co

“Relax,” he repeated. His face got serious again. “So you can walk in my head. In me.”

She nodded. There was nothing to say—no words of comfort she could give him.

In the bathroom, she avoided looking at the mirror directly, and quickly hooked a towel over the bare bulbs mounted above it. She felt better once her reflection was concealed.

She took an extra-hot shower, scrubbing with the flimsy rectangle of soap that had been provided, as if she could wash away the past few weeks and everything that had happened. She re-dressed in the leggings and sweatshirt, silently vowing to go shopping as soon as she could. She should do something with her hair, too—dye it or chop it. She experienced a moment of superficial regret: she’d spent her life hating her hair but it was still hers.