I don't remember dozing off. Then again, it must've been about seven in the

morning, mortal time, and I'd been through a lot.

 

I dreamed I was on the porch of Rachel's beach house in St. Thomas. The sun was

rising over the Caribbean. Dozens of wooded islands dotted the sea, and white

sails cut across the water. The smell of salt air made me wonder if I would ever

see the ocean again.

 

Rachel's parents sat at the patio table while a personal chef fixed them

omelets. Mr. Dare was dressed in a white linen suit. He was reading The Wall

Street Journal. The lady across the table was probably Mrs. Dare, though all I

could see of her were hot pink fingernails and the cover of Conde Nast Traveler.

 

Why she'd be reading about vacations while she was on vacation, I wasn't sure.

 

Rachel stood at the porch railing and sighed. She wore Bermuda shorts and her

van Gogh T-shirt. (Y eah, Rachel was trying to teach me about art, but don't get

too impressed. I only remembered the dude's name because he cut his ear off.)

 

I wondered if she was thinking about me, and how much it sucked that I wasn't

with them on vacation. I know that's what / was thinking.

 

Then the scene changed. I was in St. Louis, standing downtown under the Arch.

I'd been there before.