Everett didn’t sound deceived or brainwashed. He sounded like he was telling his tiny life story the same way he might talk about spending a day at the park. He was childlike. Open.

I reach the phoenix, and she raises her head at the sound of my feet. I put up my hands and talk softly.

“I was told you could take me back.” She narrows an eye at me, and for a moment I wonder if she’ll peck me. But then she spreads her wings and gives a little shake, like she’s preparing for flight.

I cautiously climb on her back. It takes a moment to yank my feet from the ground as the roots from my soles hold tight to the stony surface. The phoenix squirms, and I wonder—can she feel the roots?

She leaps into the air with rough flaps, and it’s all I can do to hold on to the harness. She circles a bit to gain height, and now that I’m not blindfolded or holding a wounded Stranna on her back, I take in my surroundings.

The catacombs aren’t very impressive from above. They look like nothing more than a derelict ruin of an unfinished amphitheater. The tunnels and maze are below the earth. I scan the terrain beyond the catacombs. It’s hard to see far in the darkness, but a glimmer at eye height catches my attention.

A star.

Light.

The phoenix swoops toward the coliseum, away from the blinking star. I gently tug the harness, and to my surprise, she obeys and turns. We head toward the glimmer. The sky is a dark gray—not quite dark enough to be midnight, but not light enough to be dawn. I lean low on the phoenix, and she drops closer to the ground.

In a matter of seconds, we glide a distance that would take me a quarter of an hour to walk. I scan the space ahead for the star, but now the golden gleam comes from the ground. We near, and I see it’s a wheat field. The stalks of wheat are fully grown and ready for plucking. More than that, they seem illuminated—not by sunlight but by themselves. It’s light and welcoming. This must be the field Everett was talking about.

The phoenix circles over it, but as she glides around the farthest side something clips her wing and smashes my leg. We hit a wall with a jolt. A window? The phoenix is thrown from the sky, and we spin.

A few flaps and she manages to slow her momentum just enough to pull off a rough landing.

For the second time today I tumble from her back. Instead of landing on stone, I’m cushioned by wheat stalks. I jump to my feet and look around. I don’t see the wall we hit, but my throbbing leg tells me it wasn’t my imagination. The phoenix picks at her feathers and favors one wing, but it doesn’t look broken.

Thank goodness. Stranna would kill me.

I catch my breath and take in my location. Now that I’m in the bright wheat, it feels almost like I’m standing in daylight. Somehow it is sunlight—contained within the stalks themselves. Glowing around me and warming my face like a perfect summer day. I close my eyes and soak it in. Emotion pricks at my throat and my eyes.

I miss the sun.

I miss light.

I don’t get it in the Real World anymore because of the timing of my Sleeps, and my bones have begun to ache for it. I open my eyes again and breathe out, long and slow. This is where I want to live. If I have to put my body in a LifeSuPod and build some Nightmare house to dwell in, this is where I want it to be—in this field.

I pluck a head of wheat and rub it in my hands until the small thin shells fall from the grains. Then I chew them. I’ve never done this before, but somehow I understand it. The grain is sweet and chewy and brings a comfort wholly separate from sustenance. I do it again.

A growl breaks the peaceful moment.

I look quickly to the phoenix, but it didn’t come from her. The growl is at one edge of the field. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness, but then I see the form of some creature on all fours. A mangy pit bull bares his teeth at me. I shove the fistful of wheat kernels into my pocket and fumble for my kris dagger. But the dog stays at the edge of the wheat field.

More sounds—a bark, a grunt, nails on hard dirt. All manner of nightbeasts gather at the border of the wheat field, eyes on me. Hungry. Angry.

I inch toward the phoenix, hoping not to startle them. Maybe we can take off before they attack.

But some are trying to attack. One massive wolf lunges, then recoils the second it touches a stalk of wheat. They can’t come into the field. They can’t come into the light. Everett had said as much.

My body relaxes a touch. They can’t get to me. The phoenix and I are safe.

But nightbeasts line only three sides of the field. The edge behind us is clear. Could I really walk safely out of the field on that side? What keeps the nightbeasts from attacking there?

I take some steps toward the clear edge of the field. The nightbeasts gather in more dense packs at the corners, and I hear the same thud, thud, thud from when the phoenix hit the mysterious wall.

Like the creatures are bumping up against plexiglass.

“Oh.” A grin crawls over my face. I approach the clear line of the field until the toe of my sandal meets the resistance of an invisible wall. I press my hand against it as I would a windowpane.

I’ve found it.

I’ve found the edge of the Nightmare.

I push against the invisible boundary, my Draftsman logic spinning as usual. Typical boundaries in dreamscapes are built to fit the dream—a castle wall or mountain range that encircles the design. Something impassable or unscalable. Cheap dreamscapes have chain-link fences. If someone were to pass the fence and somehow cross the boundary of the dream they’d wake up. Simple as that.

But this one is see-through. On the other side are random ruins of Roman structures, like buildings discarded by the Draftsman. It’s a scene projected to make Tenebra seem endless, but it’s not. There’s an end. There’s always an end. And if I can somehow figure out how to get through this boundary, I might wake. For good.

Could this be the cure to the Nightmare? Simply cross the barrier and be free of this place?

Something moves in the ruins on the other side.

I trip backward as the form grows larger, as it runs toward me. A nightbeast? But then I make out the figure. It’s human. A child. A little girl with pigtails, a pale-yellow ruffle shirt with red cherries on it, and jeans with a torn knee. Her eyes are wide and her running stops. She stands mere yards from me . . . but she’s on that side.

How is this possible?

I’m getting tired of asking that question.

Despite my confusion, I manage to raise my hand in a small wave.

She resumes a tentative advance. Her fixed gaze tells me she sees me as clearly as I see her. She can likely see the sunny wheat field as well. Can she feel its warmth at all?

I get the sense I’ve seen her before.

She walks closer, and I gesture to the barrier, though it’s invisible.

“Careful!” I don’t want her to get a bloody nose.

But she doesn’t stop.

Instead, she walks right through the clear wall—a small seam of light cracking it open for a moment. She squeezes through, hardly paying it any mind. I gape. She stands before me and breathes deeply, the same way I did when I first landed in the field.

“I’m Heidi.”

“Cain,” I say numbly. What am I seeing here? None of this aligns. I’m starting to think that my Draftsman college program was one of the worst in the world. Everything I learned and studied and all the rules that were drilled into my head don’t seem to apply to this place.

She holds up four fingers. “I’m four and a half. I’m going to be five in November. When I’m five I get bubble gum.”

“Oh. Uh . . . that’s cool.” November is a couple months away. Will she even live that long?