I was tired of remembering the pack of werewolves that had come for me but had taken my grandmother’s life instead. This time, I let memories of my dreams fill my mind with vivid imagery and intensely realistic sensations. I had felt the sun warm my skin, the sweat trickle down my back, and the blisters burst on the soles of my feet. I had smelled food and felt hunger and weariness, and had almost suffocated in the anger and resentment and pity of the people around me. But those memories weren’t the strangest ones. That morning I was awakened by the sting of a sharp slap on my cheek. My blood boiled in my veins, and within minutes of waking, the headache had returned. My head hurt so much that I thought it might split open. But the slap? How strange was that—to physically feel, in real time, the slap which had happened in my dream? Nathan distracted me before I could dwell on it any further. I knew he was trying something to make me feel better, perhaps, but his efforts seemed false to me, as if they were only an afterthought.
