The Royal Fold

Sneak Peek Of Maryelle’s Book

For Oulimata Ndaw.

Thank you for taking me in and raising me as your own.

Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster.

–Nietzsche

ROYAL FOLD

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The outcast, the intruder, and the siren series

Book One

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Milly Oumy Ly

Date Night

Have you ever had a day with so much promise it creates the delusion that, despite whatever crap you’ve been through, life will be peachy again? That’s the day I’m having. The Captain Obvious part of my brain reminds me I hate peaches. More or less, that’s where I went wrong. I picked the wrong fruit to describe my life. I should’ve picked apples or one of those exotic island fruits no one can honestly say they’ve tasted—aside from the good people of the exotic island it originates from, of course.

Fruit be damned. This isn’t how my life should be going. At the advanced age of sixteen, I’m supposed to be enjoying what’s left of my high-school career, applying for the best culinary schools in the country, getting lost in the brushstrokes of my next painting, and kissing Anna, the breathtaking redhead whose lips I can’t erase from my mind, a girl I’ve known my entire life—more specifically, the girl of my dreams.

Because life blows, though, that’s not what I’m doing. Instead, I am on the ground of a five-star Italian restaurant, recovering from a hard kick to the side of my stomach, a kick I’m positive not only is causing my shortness of breath and doubled vision but has also broken a rib. I grit my teeth through the agony and block the next punch aimed for my eye.

Damn the peachy life.

Three weeks are left in the school year before I can officially call myself a junior in high school. Unfortunately, I won’t get to experience that joy because, today, I’m committing murder, the premeditated kind. Lots of torture, pain, and extreme violence will be involved. A tiny, irrational, sleep-deprived voice in my head smiles at the idea. My victim, of course, is the annoying person standing on the opposite side of my bedroom door. This merciless nuisance, who deserves to be called all the profane words I can think of, remains behind my door, clueless to their looming fate.

This relentless presence is evident from the knocking coming from my bedroom door. Whoever is on the opposite side of that door will pay dearly. Why do people always wake you right when you’re getting to the best part of your dream? My dream date with Anna was going so well. Irritated, I toss in bed and cram a pillow over my head to muffle out the noise that refuses to cease. I groan when the banging continues.

When it’s clear the person won’t go away, I yank away the pillow cutting off my air supply and squint at the blue digits on my alarm clock. The bright numbers read 4:44 a.m. Disoriented, I scramble to untangle the covers off me, and I struggle to stride in a straight line as I stumble out of bed, half asleep. I reach for the door midyawn, but it swings open before I can touch the brass handle.

What are you doing? Maryelle asks, sighing.

Plotting murder, Maryelle. Would you like to guess the name of my victim? The question is much like most of my complaints in life. It’s ignored.

Israfil, please tell me this is a ruse and that you’ve already showered. Tell me that you sometimes wear your pajama bottoms after getting out of the shower.

Unsure of how to voice my confusion, I scratch my head and try to make sense of Maryelle’s words as well as her random crack-of-dawn appearance.

What are you even doing here this early? I wave a few fingers in the face of my best friend, to grab her attention when she stares with mild confusion at the abstract painting I was working on last night.

She stands at five feet and three inches, wearing cutoff jean shorts and a white camisole top paired with the gray flip-flops she almost always has on her feet.

Israfil, did you really just ask me that question? She huffs, shuffling past me.

By any chance, if I ask you nicely, would you go away and let me sleep?

Mar scoffs as if I should know the answer is no. I have a serious question: Are you on steroids? You’ve been looking beefier than usual. She grimaces at my bare chest, retrieves a white shirt from the floor, and throws it at me.

I roll my eyes. Is there an actual reason for your early presence? Tell me there’s some insane urgency to explain the abuse you just put my door through.

Maryelle nods, not paying attention. Her finger lightly entwines a loose tendril of her long hair, a mass of dark-brown waves that cascade past her shoulders in layers. I frown at her lack of response. She misses it, appearing transfixed by a framed picture sitting on my nightstand.

Wow. She exhales. Look at how tiny we were. The nostalgia in Maryelle’s russet eyes is apparent. Her smile widens as she peers at the photo like it’s a long-lost gem. She taps the glass on the frame and grins mawkishly at the photograph.

It’s a picture of the four of us: Anna, Maryelle, Shaw, and me. We’re huddled together, smiling. My thoughts turn to the day the picture was taken, the same day we all vowed to be best friends for life. We’ve known each other since we were seven, but we were about ten when the photo was captured. Apparently, I’ve missed Mar’s last words because she waves the frame inches away from my face to get my attention. Still exhausted, I grab it out of her hand and place it back on the nightstand.

Maryelle... I sigh. Unless you have a legitimate reason for being here this early, I’ll have to ask you to lea—

I couldn’t sleep. Besides, Israfil, it’s not that early. Look—she points at my window—the sun’s almost up.

I’m irked that she says it in a tone lacking the remorse one should have when waking up their best friend before nine o’clock.

You should get dressed so we can head over to Anna’s. I know I showed up much earlier than the time we agreed on, but her dad said we could come over as early as we want. He even gave me a key.

How’d you manage that?

It’s called the power of persuasion. I happen to excel at the art.

I give her a lopsided smile and shake my head when she dangles the gold key in my face. You definitely have a way with convincing people to give you the things they shouldn’t, I say, amused.

She gives me a devious smirk in return. Flattery will not get you more time for sleep. We need to leave soon.

I sigh but realize Mar’s right. I might as well get moving now. I want to successfully pull off the surprise we’ve been planning for a week. I want to see Anna’s face when she finds out we slipped into her house while she was asleep and made her breakfast. Maryelle and I want to make up for abandoning her this coming summer.

Once the semester ends, I’m leaving for Arizona with my father, and Maryelle’s visiting Australia with her family this summer. Because Anna’s stuck with Shaw for the entire vacation, I personally think she deserves endless home-cooked meals. For now, we’ll start with breakfast.

Shaw is not my favorite person at the moment. Granted, we all have our infuriating moments as a group, but lately, he’s been more exasperating than usual. I still don’t know how we’ve managed to stay friends with him for so long—specifically, how I’ve done it. Shaw wants to date Anna, and unfortunately for him, so do I. He thinks I should back off and claims he called dibs on her years ago. I’m not sure how the world works in Shaw’s brain, but in real life, you do not call dibs on a person. The last chocolate chip cookie on a plate, yes—a human being, not so much.

Shaw is part of the reason I don’t want to leave town for the summer. As much as I hate to admit it, he is competition. He is six feet two and has wavy neck-length hair the color of honey and ocean-blue eyes that sparkle in the sun. Also, he dresses like an Abercrombie and Fitch model and has the talent to go with his muscle definition, which reminds you why he’s the team captain of every sport our school offers. Those are Maryelle’s words, by the way. Her description of Shaw makes me wonder if she likes him as more than just a friend. However, considering I have to keep her from smacking the life out of him just about every day, I doubt the two of them are anything close to being lovebirds.

Over the years, I’ve watched Shaw charm his way into a date with every girl he’s ever been interested in, so to say I worry about leaving the guy I consider competition with Anna for an entire summer would be a vast understatement. Besides the Shaw debacle, I honestly don’t want to leave. Call me a creature of habit, but I’ve spent every summer I can remember with my friends. What Falls Quaker, California, lacks in entertainment, Maryelle, Anna, and I—and even Shaw—make up for in companionship. At times, we do aggravate each other. However, they are and will always be my best friends. Despite our futile tiffs, I’ll always be there for them.

I take another look at Maryelle and catch her scowling at me.

Are you done daydreaming? Or should I give you more time we don’t have? she asks, crossing her arms.

I wasn’t daydreaming, Mar.

I should start a liar’s money jar. Between the crapola you, Shaw, and Anna tell me, I should be able to collect enough cash to pay for college.

"Don’t be absurd. Crapola is not a word."

No, but dating is a word. Speaking of dating, when are you asking Anna out?

That’s not very smooth, Mar.

Don’t bother denying you will, because Shaw has already asked me to help him prevent your immoral plan to steal Anna.

I smirk. Did Shaw actually call it immoral?

Yup. He also went on this long rant about you breaking the bro code.

The guy is really something else. He cornered me about the Anna situation yesterday morning. I shake my head, thinking back to my run-in with Shaw.

Back off, Spanners!

We’ve known each other our whole lives, so you would think he’d at least call me by my first name once, but no. Shaw strictly calls me by my last name. Recently, it’s more like he spits it out as if it’s a curse word, which is as comical as it is irritating. I roll my eyes and contemplate ignoring Shaw’s words—or even his existence, today. Judging by the sense of determination in his eyes, along with his flared nostrils and clenched fists, I’m betting ignoring Shaw won’t give me the gift of his goodbye.

I sigh and decide to entertain him. What is it now, Shaw?

I liked Anna way before you did, and you know it! He jabs a hard finger into my chest but quickly retracts it when I give him a steely look of death that promises the loss of that finger. Spanners, he sighs, how long have we known each other? Practically forever, right? I’d like to think we’re brothers—and getting in the way of what I’m trying to have with Anna would be breaking the ultimate bro code. What do ya say, buddy? Can you promise me you’ll back off?

I blink. Is he serious? He can’t be serious. Did the same guy who has recently acted like my breathing irritates him just call me bro? Shaw must be desperate, or he must really like Anna. Well, so do I.

Gosh, bro. It kills me to say this—it really doesn’t—but I can’t do that. I hope you and I can still be the best of bros once Anna and I start dating. I’ve only seen the color puce once. It was on this ugly curtain Maryelle tried to pick out for her room before Anna stopped her. I swear Shaw’s face turns into three variations of the shade.

I called dibs! he fumes.

For the last time, Shaw, you can’t call dibs on Anna. She is not the last spring roll at the dinner table.

You’re only saying that because you didn’t call it first. I rub my temples and realize this conversation won’t progress.

I want you to know I will block your every attempt to get with Anna, Shaw adds before I can fully form a response.

So much for our budding bromance.

Anna likes being my friend as much as she likes being yours, so ultimately, the final decision on whether she wants to jeopardize friendships by dating you will be her choice. What I won’t do is just stand by and make stealing her away easy for you.

I don’t respond for two reasons: first, Shaw’s hysterical, and second, he storms off before I get the chance. I suddenly start wishing I had friends who aren’t this dramatic.

I don’t look Mar in the eye when I say, Anna and I are better as friends. I have no plans of changing that.

Liar, Maryelle quips.

I fight the grin forming at the corner of my lips, the one that’ll give away the truth. Of course I’m lying to Mar. As terrifying as it seems, I have every intention of telling Anna everything. I just don’t want to answer Maryelle’s 121 questions about the whens and the hows.

Admit it. You like Anna. You more than like her, Izzy. Everyone can see it. Besides, don’t you remember telling me you love her?

First of all, we were ten years old. Aside from that, you wrestled me to the ground, sat on my back, and refused to get up until I repeated the words ‘I’m in love with Anna.’

She smirks and shrugs. Sometimes, a girl has to resort to extreme measures.

That reminds me. I need to make new friends, normal friends.

Ha! You wouldn’t last a day around normal friends. You’d run back to us, your favorite crazies.

I may not admit it to her, but she’s right. My crazies are irreplaceable.

I should shower now. I wink at her. Just in case your type of insanity is contagious. I’ll meet you downstairs in twenty minutes.

Make that fifteen minutes.

Fine. I’ll see you in fifteen.

Wait. Mar exhales. "Are you aware that Shaw has immediate plans to ask Anna out? You need to act soon because we can’t let that happen."

Considering we’re all friends, shouldn’t you be more neutral?

The things that come out of his mouth make it hard to root for Shaw. Also, I’m team Israfil. Shaw’s maturity level annoys me these days, she adds, shaking her head.

Aside from that, Israfil, I think you and Anna would be a good fit. You both laugh at the jokes Shaw and I never get. You have this silent, secret language I can’t decipher, and you may not realize it, but you sometimes finish each other’s sentences. It’s absolutely lame yet freaking adorable. It’s like you’re two incompatible pieces of a puzzle that somehow managed to fit perfectly.

You really think Anna and I are a great fit?

Based on my last relationship, I know I’m not the best person to sell the idea of love, but—

Jared being a gigantic sack of manure was not your fault.

I know...

Do you? Tell me you’re not blaming yourself for getting cheated on.

Mar shakes her head no although the hesitant look in her eyes tells me the thought has crossed her mind. I swear I’m not blaming myself.

Good. That jerk never deserved someone as incredible as you. The next time I see Jared, my fist will get familiar with his face.

Is this coming from the guy who always tells me violence is not the answer? Okay, who are you, and what have you done with my friend Israfil’s inner Gandhi?

Those words don’t apply to that jerk, and they definitely don’t apply to anyone who hurts you.

Her eyes widen in surprise, but that’s quickly replaced by a cheeky smirk that lights up her face. You’re kind of awesome on the days when you’re not difficult. Especially when you get in that protective big-brother mode. You see? This is why I’m team Israfil.

I chuckle at her words and grab a pair of dark-blue jeans from my dresser drawer then take a black shirt from my closet and toss it onto the bed.

Maryelle passes me and reaches for a green shirt I haven’t worn in ages. A gorgeous redhead named Anna once mentioned she loves the color green on you... even said it brings out the hazel in your eyes. Thank you for saying what you said about the Jared situation and for overall being a great friend.

Shh! Not too loud. Someone might hear you and want one.

That makes her laugh, and I’m glad. Laughter from Maryelle means that, even if it’s for a fleeting moment, I’ve successfully erased the sour thought of Jared and his betrayal. I know the mention of her sleazebag ex-boyfriend always makes her sad, and that is the last thing I want.

Another thought dawns on me. I do not want Anna to hear how I feel through Maryelle. I interrupt her midlaugh and say, Promise me you won’t tell Anna about how I may or may not feel about her.

Mar sighs long and hard. It’s almost too theatrical to be real. Fine, I won’t tell Anna you’re in love with her, she grumps. When my eyebrows rise in suspicion, she gives me a larger-than-life smile. The fifteen minutes you have to get ready still remain. If, for whatever reason, you’re not ready in fifteen minutes, I’ll have to head to Anna’s house without you. Should that happen, I can’t promise I’ll stop myself from singing a song that heavily implies you want to marry her and hope she has fourteen of your babies.

At what point this morning did Satan possess your body?

She tosses a pillow at my chest, and I catch it. Right after I showered off my craziness. I hear it’s contagious.

I shoot an innocent smile her way then pretend to fluff my pillow but instead aim for her head. She catches it midair and throws it onto the side of my bed. Her toothy grin expands as she heads for my bedroom door. The girl’s reflexes are spectacular.

I’ll see you in fifteen minutes. And please, work on giving those beefy arms of yours some talent. You throw like a guy who just got his nails done.

Maryelle sticks her tongue out at me. I laugh and toss another pillow at her. She dodges the hit by closing the door in the nick of time. I watch as the pillow flops to the ground. Even though Maryelle drives me insane, she’s always there for me. She sometimes feels like a sibling the universe entrusted me with despite my dad choosing not to have any more kids.

The central air-conditioning system hums in the background, filling my room with enough cold air to make me wish again that I was back under the coziness of my comforters. My steps drag as I walk to the bathroom connected to my room. The frigid tiles under my toes do an excellent job of waking me. After sliding open the shower’s glass door, I turn on the faucet and fight the urge to let the water run as hot as I prefer. The rushing sound of the stream, along with its cool temperature, stirs me. Time isn’t a luxury I have, according to the girl now downstairs and probably drinking coffee with my dad, another morning person.

I rush through the lukewarm shower with three minutes left to get dressed because I don’t want to chance today being the day Maryelle blabs. Letting the girl I like find out that I care about her through a third party wouldn’t be ideal, but the more I think about telling Anna, the more petrified I am. The idea of losing her because she may not be interested in dating me is about as horrifying as the thought of her dating someone other than me. Despite my fear, my ultimate plan remains. I’m telling Anna how I feel before leaving for summer vacation.

After scurrying into a pair of shoes so quickly I’m not sure they match, I grab my cell phone, keys, and book bag and am ready to leave. One last glance at the clock confirms I am unerringly on time. That’s when I hear something.

What a waste. A lowly, human weakling, someone says distastefully in a raw, guttural voice.

I jump and drop my cell phone, which lands on the ground in a loud clatter that doesn’t ease what I’m positive is an imminent cardiac arrest.

I was never one to feel the effects of horror movies, but I would be lying if I said I’m not borderline crap-my-pants terrified. My pulse races, and my heart jackhammers behind my rib cage. I glance around my room, searching for the source, but find no sign of anyone else in the room but myself. The sheets are ruffled, and the dark-blue comforter hanging off the bed gives no sign it has been touched since the last time I was on it. The light-blue paint on the walls dims when I close the windows and fasten the shutters to block out the sunlight. The feeling that I may be the world’s biggest doofus hits me right after I look under the bed. Not until I stick my head in the closet to check for the disgruntled voice do I start to feel more like a universal moron.

I suppose there’s a chance you’re not as meek as you seem... Perhaps you’re defective, the gruff voice reasons.

What the hell? Who’s there?

I mentally kick myself the moment the words are out of my mouth. Nothing ends well for the people in the movies who ask that stupid question. My spine remains rigid with distress as I continue searching the room in a frantic haze.

Nausea fills the pit of my stomach when I realize whoever is in here could hurt my dad and Maryelle. Fear for their safety propels me forward. Without putting enough thought into it, I lurch forward as I head toward the only place I haven’t checked. I barge into the bathroom and slide open the glass shower door with brute force. The joints holding the glass together whine in protest as the frame shudders. My heart takes off faster than a mechanical bull at the thought of what I might discover, but I’m shocked to find it empty... I should be relieved, but I’m not. On one hand, I could be sleep-deprived enough to imagine the voice, and on the other, I could be leaving my dad alone in the house with a possible threat.

This is absurd. I internally scold the portion of my brain suffering from lack of sleep, reasoning with myself to stop acting irrational. A squeak of hysteria escapes my lips for even considering the thought of finding a monster under my bed, in my closet, or in the shower. Get a grip, Israfil. I brush the lint off my now-disheveled shirt, straighten my collar, and try to diminish the crazy in my head.

I exhale and wheel around to leave but instead stagger. Paralyzing dread grips me when I catch sight of the monster’s reflection in the mirror. It’s a glimpse of the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen. Piercing yellow-green feline eyes, set in a familiar face that resembles my own, stare back at me.

The mirror projects an ethereal burst of floating white particles. Beams of light extend from the glass, making it appear to be some sort of portal.

Let me apologize for the rude things I said earlier. I jumped to conclusions, and harsh words tend to slip out. But, hey, it happens, right? The terrifying face that looks like a warped version of mine smooths, trying to reason with me. Why don’t you let me make it up to you, Dreamer? Get in here, and let me show you around.

I take a quick step back. I’m hallucinating. Or I’m having a mental breakdown. Another thought quickly dawns on me. Am I still dreaming? I’ve been known to have the oddest dreams.

Why don’t you touch the mirror and find out? the face behind the looking glass suggests in a velvety voice I’ve only heard a used-car salesman unleash.

Dad and I were smart enough not to buy my car from him.

No, thank you, I say.

I step away from the bathroom to do the only sane thing one can do in an insane situation like this—cover the freaking possessed mirror. I cling onto my sanity as I grab the tape from my desk and pick up the poster board I used in my last school project. I march back into the bathroom.

You’re the typical Dreamer. Always terrified of reality and never willing to push past the fear holding you from achieving your destiny. This is why I called you weak.

You must be the disturbing part of my subconscious that comes out when I’m sleep-deprived and cranky, and that’s fine. But I’m not continuing this conversation with you—or me, I say, not sure how to refer to the thing staring back at me.

Instead of overanalyzing, I cut off two pieces of tape and stick them on the top and bottom ends of the poster board and place it over the mirror. I’m jerked forward when a couple of my fingers touch the glass. The poster board falls to the ground as what feels like suction draws my entire hand into the mirror. I watch in horror as the hand sprouts a coat of silver fur, protrudes sharpened claws, and officially confirms I’ve lost my mind.

I yank my hand away, shove my body to the ground, and twist it to look away from the quadruped thing in the mirror, only to face a peeved Maryelle.

What are you doing?

I... um... Realizing how ridiculous this must look, I pull myself from the floor.

"Dude, we have a breakfast to cook. Knowing that I don’t know how to prepare anything besides cereal, you have a meal to make. Come on, already." She hooks her arm into mine and prompts me to move.

Before exiting the room, I catch another glimpse of the mirror and see the face with monstrous peridots eyes feigning pity at me.

It’s now ten minutes til seven. The crisp morning air brushes through my short hair and dries the messy brown strands mopped on top of my head. Despite the morning breeze, I can tell the day is going to be one of those blistering-hot ones, judging by how warm the sun already feels against my skin.

Are you riding with me or driving your car? Maryelle asks.

I’d rather drive myself and arrive in one piece.

That’s a shame because I was going to convince Anna to also ride with me since her car’s been intermittently stalling this week. But you’re right to drive your own car, Izzy. My front seat somehow always ends up with so much crap that you might be forced to sit in the back with her.

Maryelle gives me a smug smile when I don’t say a word. She opens her vehicle’s door, and I circle my way to the passenger side and get in.

I should really look into starting a matchmaking business, she says.

Or you could just drive.

She winks at me, and I fail miserably at hiding my smirk.

I stare through the car’s window as Maryelle passes the rows of midsized, picket-fenced, single-family residential homes almost everyone’s parents opted for in Falls Quaker. As she speeds through our small town, we pass the few locally owned shops closest to Anna’s house.

Marty, the town mechanic, waves at us before turning around to roll up the metal shutters to his shop. The smell of flaky croissants, French bread, and freshly made cookies makes my stomach growl as we drive by the yellow building with the bright-blue sign reading Avery’s Bakery. It’s the same bakery Dad used to take me to every morning back when he drove me to elementary school. I remember I’d always get a chocolate chip cookie and a Boston cream donut. Half of my cookie would end up in Mar’s hands. The donut I would give to Anna because I knew it was her favorite.

The lack of traffic during our early-morning cruise to Anna’s house diminishes it from the usual fifteen-minute drive to a seven-minute one. We pull into Anna’s driveway, and Maryelle parks the car, but not before giving me a once-over.

You smell different today. She sniffs the edge of my shoulder. For the third time this week, I question my ability to choose sane friends.

I took a shower, I retort, and the reason I may not smell like my usual self might be because a certain someone rushed me this morning.

You don’t smell bad, she clarifies, just different.

Why don’t we go inside before you say something more abnormal than usual? It’s been a weird enough morning. My thoughts revert to whatever I thought I saw in my bathroom.

Something happened, Maryelle states instead of asking.

Nothing happened. I laugh, knowing she’d think I was deranged if I voiced what I believe I saw in my bathroom mirror.

Her eyes search mine curiously, and the look in them tells me she knows something. Did she see it as well? I open my mouth to ask but am interrupted by the sound of large knuckles tapping on her window.

I glance up, and the smug expression on the face in front of me immediately sets me off. I turn to look at Maryelle in disbelief.

Before you even think of blaming me for his presence, you should know that I did not invite Shaw, she points out.

Mar steps out of her seat and closes the car door behind her, and I do the same. She rubs her temples, no doubt trying to prepare for the annoyance that is Bradshaw Cooper.

He gives me a crooked smile and raises the large box of donuts in his hands. I’m choosing to forgive you both for forgetting to tell me about the surprise we’re putting together for Anna. That’s right, losers, Bradshaw Cooper is taking the high road.

Why are you referring to yourself in the third person, and who says we forgot to tell you? Maryelle smirks at him as she snatches the box of donuts from his hand.

Let’s get started before she wakes up, Mar. Shaw, the high road’s that way, bro, I point to the opposite side of the street as Maryelle hands me a donut.

Shaw rips the bitten donut from my hand and scowls at me. "It’s Bradshaw to you, and in case you’re both wondering how I made it here despite my lack of an invitation, Anna’s dad reminded me. He assumed I was a part of the plan and asked me to make sure one of us grabbed a box of Boston-cream-pie donuts from Avery’s Bakery. Do the two of you even know that they’re Anna’s favorite?"

Of course we know that, Shaw. What we also know is that Anna misses having a real breakfast and would give anything for a home-cooked spread. You were there when she said it, but I guess you didn’t hear her over the sound of your overbearing voice. What’s it like to be in love with the annoying sounds that come out of your mouth?

He grins. Gee, Spanners, I’m not sure. But I expect it’s something close to the satisfaction I’ll get from hearing her turn down a date with you.

Boys, boys, boys. Maryelle tsks. As entertaining as you think the neighborhood might find your argument, I’m confident Anna would rather wake up to the sight of you fellas flipping pancakes. Personally, I wouldn’t mind if one of you reintroduced me to the deliciousness of fresh-squeezed orange juice.

Instead of waiting for us to respond, she grabs us each by an arm and pushes us toward the front door.

The images in my head swirl in disorienting shadows. Not until they still do I realize I am dreaming. The dream is nothing short of amazing. Led by wafts of delicious aromas, I follow the trail guiding me to the scents. The enticing fragrances make my stomach growl. Smiling to myself, I meander toward them.

My toes squeak against the linoleum when my steps halt. I’m in an enormous white room