Same one, three nights running. Bell Elkins didn’t believe in dreams. Not the nighttime kind, anyway. Not the kind that came because you were restless and preoccupied, your mind unable to shed the burden of a problem and so the problem invaded your sleep, too, just as it invaded your conscious hours, until you solved it or learned to live with it. She didn’t believe that dreams carried any particular significance. They weren’t symbols or omens or portents. They weren’t trying to send a message. You couldn’t sift through them for clues about the future. Or for dire warnings. That, she was sure, was total crap. But this one wouldn’t go away. Wouldn’t leave her alone. When she awoke on the third straight morning and realized that she’d had it again—same dream, which meant the same sticky residue from it would cling to her thoughts throughout the day—Bell was annoyed. She pushed away the comforter and sat up on the side of the bed, rubbing her eyes, rubbing her temples.
