Dream Me(7)

“It’s my arranged destination. It’s been coded and cleared. Now I’m just waiting.”

“It doesn’t seem wrong to you? To take over a person’s thoughts? Their minds?”

“It’s not really their thoughts. It’s a subconscious period where the thoughts aren’t directed in a rational manner. They’re aimless meanderings. It happens when they sleep.”

“I know what a dream is, Zat.”

“I know you know. I just wanted to make it clear I wasn’t taking over anyone’s mind.”

“Well, that’s the way it seems to me. And so pointless when there’s no proof of success. Why not just stay here with your uncle if you’re determined to die?”

They stood facing each other, an island of discord in the small sea of mingling youth.

“Sahra. If we shan’t see each other ever again, let’s not part like this. Let our last words be ones of love and kindness.”

“I know. I’m sorry. It’s just . . . who have you chosen as your destination? A scientist? A futurist?”

Zat thought again of the girl with the red hair. He thought of her clear, light skin that looked as though it would feel almost gelatinous. What would it feel like to run his finger down the length of her arm? Her leg? Through her hair?

“Just a person. A regular person with no special talent beyond a forceful yet curious temperament. Adaptable, so perhaps I’ll be more readily accepted.”

He knew the girl, Babe, would just be arriving in that place near the ocean at his programmed time. The Gulf of Mexico, as it was called back then, was now just an unnamed dry desert bed. She didn’t dream of it yet because she had never seen it. But she would. She would very soon. And when she did, he hoped he’d be there with her if everything went the way it should.

“I hope for your sake he accepts you. I hope you don’t live to regret your decision . . . or worse.” Sahra looked away and took a sudden sharp breath as if to tamp down her sorrow. “How old is he?” she asked.

He. Zat decided not to enlighten Sahra about the sex of his future host. Why drive another wedge between them when this was most likely the last conversation they’d ever have?

“The same as us. I thought it was best so I could experience age-relevant events.”

Maybe he should go home. He’d probably made a mistake by coming tonight.





BABE’S BLOG


CHECKING OUT THE NEW SURROUNDINGS . . .

The bike in the garage is promising. A rusty old green thing that looks like it might have been new when my mom was a kid. It has a basket, which is dorky but useful. I test it out in the driveway. Tires pumped and in good condition (thanks, Dad). No gears but, hey, no hills, so that’s a wash. An old-fashioned rusty bell that actually works. A clear drop of oil leaking from the bell onto my thumb is a hint Dad’s been working on the bike in preparation for my arrival.

In spite of the stifling heat, I dress in a long-sleeved blue cotton shirt and cut-offs (my white legs slathered with sunscreen). My crazy hair is stuffed into a wide-brimmed canvas hat—the kind you’d expect to see on an African safari. With my round, oversized sunglasses completing the look, I’m sure I look slightly . . . unusual. I pack four water bottles into the basket along with my backpack and set off for my first adventure.

The smooth cement of our driveway gives way to the sand and gravel crunch of Trout Lane. I pause to check out my new street but can see nothing much of interest besides our house. Just a lot of sandy looking soil and some tall pines. Makes me wonder where all those noisy tree frogs went, the ones that kept me awake last night.

I ride back out to the main road that delivered us here last night. At last I can see it for what it is, a highway without any street lights. And without any cars.

Then a truck whizzes by and honks. I’m not sure if I’m doing something wrong or if he’s just being friendly. There isn’t a bike lane so I stay as far to the right as I can without falling off the pavement.

After about five minutes of pedaling, another car speeds by and I realize I’m already thirsty. I get off my bike and guide it from the road into an area that looks to be free of fire ant nests, even though I’m not exactly sure what a fire ant nest might look like. I down an entire bottle of water in less than thirty seconds. That happened after only five minutes? I maybe should’ve brought more water.

Back on my bike and back on the road, I pedal on. Another few minutes and another car passes. The sun’s so hot it emits a high frequency note like a chorus of a million hysterical crickets. Even though my shirt sticks to me like a wet rag, I resist the urge to pull over for another drink.

Peering off in the distance I see wavy lines of heat rising from the blacktop, nothing that looks like a piggly wiggly, or anything else for that matter. Nothing but pine trees and the occasional car that passes every five minutes or so. It occurs to me I might die from the heat out in the middle of nowhere. But I’m not about to turn around and go home. I’m on a mission and I’ve chosen to accept it. Mission impossible? I hope not.

Another ten minutes and my doubts turn serious. Not even one car comes by during that time. I get off my bike again and gulp down a second bottle of water. My body’s expelling water through sweat faster than I can drink it. My face feels like the color it probably is. Red. Or possibly purple. Finally, a white pick-up truck traveling in the opposite direction pulls off to the side of the road—“Cummings’ Emergency AC Repair,” emblazoned on the driver’s door. I can definitely appreciate the fact that a broken air conditioner is an emergency around here. The driver’s side window rolls down.