A shout interrupts my solace—a human shout. I spin toward the Tunnel, ready for whatever might emerge after me. Whatever might pursue me.

Nothing comes, but the voice calls out again.

“I’ve got this one!”

I bolt to my feet, fists at the ready—though I’m still shaking free of the blindness. My vision clears and meets a pattern of dark bars against a gray misty light. A cage. I’ve left the black concrete tunnel only to enter a new Tunnel of thick wood poles that curve into sharpened points above my head.

Like the rib cage of a Leviathan.

Crude ropes hold the poles too tight for anything thicker than an arm to fit through. But this cage is not in darkness. I’m . . . outside. Kind of. The sky above is a black gray without stars, moon, or sun but with plenty of low-hanging clouds. I can’t pinpoint where the dim gray light comes from.

The air is much like what I’d encounter walking the streets of New York at night—moving, carrying various scents and stenches. Am I still in the Nightmare or have I woken up?

A padlocked door at the end of the rib-cage prison keeps me trapped. Behind me is the entrance to the Tunnel. Still in the Nightmare then. But . . . what is this place? The relief I felt moments ago flashes into defense.

I shake one of the bars. “Hey!”

“Ooh, we’ve got an Anger,” the voice says. I turn, trying to find it.

“Finally,” someone else says. “I’m so sick of Fears. They’re dull.”

“And predictable,” the first voice chimes.

“Don’t know how they get out of the Tunnel at all.”

I search for the source of the voices, but my gaze catches on three other tunnels like mine, their mouths forming a semicircle around a gravel clearing. The tunnels disappear into an earthen wall with dead grass along the brow—almost like possessed hobbit holes. In front of each tunnel sits a cage like mine, and each holds two to three other people, though they all sit in their prisons with their heads tucked into their arms, while I have my fists up by my face.

A campfire crackles not far away with a few sawn logs for seats, though the fire doesn’t give off the warm glow I tend to associate with flame. A pot rests in the coals to the side.

Four people sit around the fire, sipping from dented metal cups.

This . . . this is a world. There are people here. Clouds and fires and smells. This Nightmare isn’t a mutation like Nole and I thought.

I’m in a dreamscape.

A body steps up to block my view of the other tunnels and the campfire. A male, blond and pale with hardly a muscle visible in his gangly limbs, he keeps his distance. He is writing something on a clipboard or perhaps a tech pad of some sort.

I’m still reeling: I’m in a dreamscape. Meaning this place was designed. It’s not a mutation or a virus. It’s intentional. Even the Tunnel. I try to reconcile the revelation, but as quickly as it came so does a fuzz in my mind that mutes any clarity of thought.

I can’t seem to think outside of this cage. This moment. It’s like my thoughts as well as my body are confined. I strain for my Real World knowledge and survey the man in front of me, scanning for fantasy hair or unnatural bone structure. Anything to clue me in to what sort of blueprint was used for his design.

He wears more weapons on his body than an armory display, most of which look ancient. A short sword hangs at his side and a dagger is tucked in his belt along with a strap holding spiked spheres that look like a cross between grenades and medieval mace heads. No guns.

“I’m not an enemy,” he says to me, sounding almost bored.

“Let me out,” I growl, my emotions bringing me back to my present predicament.

“If I do, you’ll be killed.” He has yet to look up at me.

Is that a threat? “I’m not afraid of you.”

“Not by me. That cage is for your own safety.”

Right. A Nightmare human covered in weapons locked me in a cage for my protection. He finishes his scribbles, and I now see it’s no tech pad but an old piece of parchment, nailed to a thin slab of wood.

He waves to his fellows. Only then do I realize the Vetters have hauled a cage cart into view and have loaded six of the captives into it. They direct the cart to the third cage.

“Where are you taking them?” I ask as the next three climb into the cart like mindless sheep.

“Somewhere safe.”

I shake the bars, and the wood snickers with amused creaks. “Give me specifics!”

“Ooh, a curious Anger. You’re an interesting mix. It brings a nice balance, actually. The last Anger who got out of the Tunnels throttled two of my fellow Vetters before we could cage him.”

The idea of throttling this guy sounds rather appealing. But my desire for understanding is greater—it always has been. Someone used to call it my greatest strength. My memories strain. Who? Who do I know? Who said that? I shut my eyes, irritated by the lack of clarity.

No one . . .

No. That’s not right.

No . . . le.

Nole. Nole said it. My brother. He said my curiosity led to resourcefulness. Mom said it would get me killed. Now Nole is dead, and I’m caged by a Nightmare stranger.

Mom was always right.

Focus. My memories of Nole and Mom dry up like waterdrops on hot asphalt. This guy’s a dream avatar. Trying to logic with him isn’t going to get me anywhere. His responses are programmed. If I want to keep surviving, I’ll follow his directions until I can wake up again and sort through all of this with a mind that’s not saturated in heightened emotions.

The man sighs. “Look, I was caged, too, once, okay? Right where you are—same Tunnel actually. Except I was a Fear—that emotion got the best of me for a long time. In here your emotions are going to be stronger. Deadly. Better get a hold of yourself. It’s going to be a rough ride to the coliseum.”

Coliseum? The only encounter I’ve had with one was seeing the original Colosseum on a screen in Gladiator. I roll my eyes.

“Thanks for the warnings.” I know better than to trust anything out of his mouth.

“The name’s James. And I’m no avatar.” He gives me an annoyed look. “Skepticism is written all over your face. You might as well know, I’m infected . . . like you.”

I back away from the bars. “A real person?” Not a creation of the Nightmare?

“I’m as real as they come. Born in Chicago. Will probably die there too. My infection finalized about a week ago.” Finalized. Ended. No more time awake.

He’s talking about another life—another life I’m a part of but can’t seem to grasp for more than a few seconds.

“It’ll get easier to remember your old life,” he says. “Easier to forget it too. It’s up to you.” He’s here in the Nightmare until his physical body deteriorates. But how can he be in here if we didn’t fall asleep in the same dream batch? How can he be in Chicago and me in New York, yet we’re both here in the same dreamscape?

A headache throbs behind my temples from the strain of clinging and clawing to the little details I can remember from real life.