Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 124341 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 497(@250wpm)___ 414(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124341 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 497(@250wpm)___ 414(@300wpm)
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Mara said.
Mara knew the dream too. They’d all had a version of it. Likely because they were all highly suggestible and had no personal knowledge of regular life. The only things they knew intimately were each other, the hospital and its grounds, and the woods beyond. They seized on the experiences spoken of by others, even dreaming similar dreams. Certain materials were banned at Mercy because they brought on terrible nightmares that felt far too real to ADHM kids—horror movies, ghost stories, even tearjerkers. Once, a girl named Gracie, who was new at Mercy, had told them how she’d found her mother dead in the bathtub, and that night, they’d all dreamed about it in some form. Autumn’s dream had featured a creature with hanging skin emerging from a murky lake.
“No. That’s the thing. It was the same dream, only…different. Better.”
“Better?” Mara’s eyes lit with a small spark of interest. “What do you mean?”
“I got caught.”
Mara blinked, her mouth forming a small O. “And that was…better?”
“Yes. Because of who caught me.”
Mara pulled herself up on her pillow, and though she flinched, the expression was slight, and it smoothed out as she lay back down. “Tell me.”
Autumn described the incredible way he looked.
“He sounds like a monster!”
Autumn laughed, but it faded quickly, her brow wrinkling. “Yes…but no.”
“What did he do?”
“He just stared at me like he didn’t know what to do.”
Mara’s eyes began to droop, her shoulders lowering as her body relaxed into the mattress.
Autumn exhaled a sigh of relief. Sleep, Mara. Heal.
“If that’s all that happens, then we should all stop running in our sleep.” Mara’s eyes fluttered once and then fell shut. “Maybe I’ll dream of the monster too. And if I do, I’ll take your lead,” she murmured, the words floating away as her hand went limp.
Autumn moved a piece of hair off Mara’s cheek. The blanket had slipped aside, and she saw the heavy surgical bandages. She also saw the lumps beneath her gown she knew were tumors. Hopelessness descended. Mara would need a miracle to survive. So it was with less hope that Autumn took her next breath, knowing that it was only a matter of time before she’d have to say goodbye to another friend.
Autumn stood slowly, allowing her body to adjust to the change in position, and then made her way to the door. A nurse guided an old woman toward the elevator. Someone’s grandmother—a few of those visited occasionally. She was weeping. She’d just received bad news. There was no lack of that at Mercy.
Autumn grasped her hands together, her head tilting as she caught sight of something on the side of her thumbnail. She brought it closer, frowning, using the nail of her index finger to remove the dark substance embedded. She stared at it, then rubbed it between her fingers, feeling its gritty texture. Dirt. She’d had dirt under her thumbnail. Dirt that had been deep enough under her nail that she’d missed it when she washed up that morning.
How was that possible when she lived in what could only be described as one of the most sanitized “homes” there was? She lived in a hospital where not even a speck of dirt existed.
Chapter Three
Autumn lay in her bed, staring upward, the large, dropped ceiling morphing into the nighttime sky. She blinked it away, the bright, full moon disappearing, the outline of the fluorescent lights coming into focus. Reality. She sighed. The medication helped, but she was a natural at merging fantasy—dreams—with reality. No wonder she felt as if she’d been sleepwalking through most of her life.
She turned to the side, uncomfortable. She was so skinny that her bones poked at her skin from the inside and hurt. Stop complaining, Autumn. You have it far better than most around here.
True. Not that that said anything great.
Her gaze hung on her journal, still sitting on the window seat where she’d been writing in it earlier. Carefully, she got out of bed, walking to where it lay open. She read over the words she’d written.
Does my birth mother ever miss me, I wonder? Does she think of the day I was born? Was it dewy that October morning? Did she name me Autumn, or did someone else? Maybe it was her favorite season. Perhaps she once jumped in piles of leaves and ate caramel apples. Maybe those happy memories surfaced when she looked into my eyes. Did she first ask to hold me as my cry filled the room? Does she hear that phantom sound sometimes when she comes awake suddenly in the dark of the night? Does she think of me when the leaves change color and fall to the ground? Does the memory smell like firelight and taste like apples? Does she feel a reaching inside? Does she cry? Does she wonder? Or is it only me?