I’m propped up against a tree near the still-sleeping Tabitha. My arm is just an arm. It’s soaking wet, but it’s an ordinary arm. Actually, all of me is soaking wet. Clyde is kneeling down next to me. Probably the one who threw the water on me to wake me up. Kayla stands behind him, looking at me with mild disgust. It strikes me that mild might be an improvement. Then Clyde’s words finally sink in. “Gone,” I repeat. “The Progeny?” Ever the optimist. Clyde shakes his head and hope stops springing. “The Dreamers,” he says, “they’ve gone, left.” “Is that good or bad?” I know which way it feels but... Clyde shrugs. He looks gaunt. Defeated. “I honestly don’t know.” Kayla looks away. And we don’t know. We can’t know. That’s the truth. And even if we knew the implications, there’s no way to stop the Dreamers from walking off. They can turn your arm into a... a... I don’t know. Anything. Everything. Part of my brain is still screaming. Part of it is trying to rationalize the experience, pulling on half-remembered conversations with Clyde about more and less probable realities.
