I want to give credit to Nole. I want to say something deep. But my alarm goes off again. I silence it. “Five minutes.”

I leave the recording going and grab the concoction, then consult the notebook one last time. I don’t want to overdose. Nole said different amounts are needed for different stages of the virus.

I place a tiny dosage cup on a scale and fill it with the amount that should be appropriate for a person sixteen-days infected.

My heart drums a rat-a-tat of anticipation.

“Here we go.” I down the mixture with a splash against my throat. One swallow.

It tastes stale and strange, leaving a metallic aftertaste on my tongue. Entrance into a dreamscape is typically done intravenously, but Nole insisted on concocting an oral cure. Either that or a cure through eye drops, but he couldn’t fit the proper dosage into eye drops. He said oral dosage would be easier for average people to administer.

I place the now empty beaker back on the table, then I glance at the clock. 5:59 a.m.

“One minute to go.”

The seconds close in. I hold my breath. I probably should have drunk the serum sooner, but this is going to work. Not because of my smarts, but because of Nole’s.

Thirty seconds.

I see the mist. “Man.” I press a hand against the table. “Sorry guys,” I say to the livestream. “I see the mist.” The Nightmare vapor that always precedes entrapment. “I’ll try again when I wake up next.”

Though I can’t fathom what I need to change in the formula. Thanks a lot, God. The two people who trusted Him the most are both dead. I shouldn’t have expected any help from Him in the first place, but I thought maybe He’d take pity on me after everything He took away.

Ten seconds.

Nole’s followers are all going to watch me crumble into a pathetic heap. I don’t want to be seen in that vulnerable state. I’m about to turn off the live stream, except the mist lags, like a pale morning fog instead of a black ocean of cloud.

I rub my eyes against the pull of sleep, feel it calling to me. But as the fog reaches me, I stare it down. I don’t waiver. The cure is in me. Nole knew what he was doing.

I shift my thinking and send up a desperate prayer—habit, I suppose.

The cloud fingers recoil. A flash of black crosses my vision and then . . . then my alarm turns off. And 6:00 clicks to 6:01.

I am still awake.

The cure. It worked.

“No way,” I breathe. I feel my face. Blink my eyes. Check the numbers on my alarm clock again. “Wha . . . ?” I reach for the notebook. Gaze at the beaker. As though staring at objects will help me process what just happened.

The comments on the live stream explode.

My head pounds with a sharp headache, but it’s almost laughable compared to the freedom I feel.

I whoop. “We did it!”

I turn back to the live stream. Most of the comments are asking how they can get the serum. Telling me how long they have left before they’re trapped.

“Hold on, hold on everyone. I need to check on my stock. I need to find more—” I glance at the three remaining ImagiSerum vials.

“Give me some time.” I turn off the stream and shut off my phone, preserving the generator’s energy as much as possible.

I go still, staring at my workspace in awe. We did it. We actually did it. Then, as if someone hits a splash cymbal, I burst into action. Spastic movement without much direction because, aside from imagining praise and success and a receding virus, I’d never thought about the logistics.

How do I get more serum? More of any of the ingredients? I have almost no money. How can I make more antidote and distribute it to others? There is no postage system anymore. And lives are relying on me.

There’s still so little I know about it, like how long it lasts or if it’ll work on people already trapped or if I need to take it every day for the rest of my life, and if so, do I need to increase the dosage every day . . .

“It doesn’t matter,” I say to the empty lab room. I’ll figure it out. There’s no time to wait. I have something that fights the virus, and that is more than nothing. People are at the end of their virus lives. There are thousands out there who may have only days—hours—left before they’re trapped in the virus forever.

I can’t be like the health experts who have yet to find an antidote. Who say they can’t release anything until their concoctions undergo clinical trials and testing. No one has that kind of time.

I flip open my laptop again. The first thing I do is send an email to the higher ups in public health. Then, on a whim, I copy the email and send it to as many important people—leaders, doctors, senators, pastors, news reporters, politicians—whose emails I can find. I say I found a cure and I used it on myself successfully. I tell them we need to get it into production somehow for the masses. I include the live-stream link. When I rewatch it, I see the telltale black veins creeping into the whites of my eyes at exactly 6:00 a.m. and then receding.

It really worked.

I leave the university science lab and head back to The Fire Swamp to recharge the generator with the solar panels. I need food. I also need sleep, but I’m not about to risk shutting my eyes. What if that triggers the Nightmare and overrides the cure?

Two potatoes later, my phone and laptop are plugged in, sucking up what remains of the solar energy. I tend the chickens and notice the brightening of the sky. It’s overcast with dark storm clouds, and I can almost taste the sun on the other side of the gray canopy. Miles away I think I spot a bit of blue sky.

This storm will pass, and then my solar panels will get their charge.

Then I’ll see the sun.

My heartbeat quickens at the idea of sunlight. Such a simple, overrated thing. Yet I’ll see it again. And again. And again. Because I’m cured. I almost laugh at the storm overhead.

I barricade myself in The Fire Swamp, pull out my notebook, and dive into dreaded math calculating how much of each substance and ingredient I’ll need to make 100 cures. I check my email every five minutes. No responses from anyone.

I let the battery charge a little more, navigating dead and closed and broken websites until I find information on how and where to get more product.

My heart is racing. I still can’t believe this.

I’m here.

I’m cured.

I’ve saved the world.

I bolt awake ten hours later. The coils of my notebook are pressed into the side of my face. I fell asleep?

I scramble for my computer. So much time wasted. How could I let that happen? Ten whole hours lost. Then again, I didn’t enter the Nightmare. I slept. Like in regular life. Victory feels heavy and rich.

My computer is only partially charged. I glance out the window. The storm has gone, but so has the sun. All that blinks at me from the sky are stars and a half-risen moon.

Tomorrow. I’ll see the sun tomorrow.

I have no new emails. Not one response in all those hours of waiting. I hadn’t expected every leader to take me seriously and beg for more information, but I thought I’d hear at least something, even if they are interested only for themselves.