I drifted in and out of consciousness inside something cold and metallic. I couldn’t move—my wrists were held down, and my ankles. Restraints, I realized through a fog. My left hand burned dully through a chemical haze, like I was drugged or something. And I’m in a box. My eyelids fluttered shut. Thank God I don’t have to pee, I thought hazily, before the dark swallowed me again. After a long while I was vaguely aware of a bump and a screech, and I figured out I was on a plane. That was all I knew. Then the dream came out of nowhere, and this time I was tied down and I had to watch. The concrete hallway stretched into infinity. I saw him, walking in his particular way, each boot landing softly as he edged along, and the scream caught in my throat. Because it was my father, and he was moving toward that door covered in chipped paint under the glare of the fluorescents, and he was going to die. I knew this and I couldn’t warn him, static fuzzing through the image and my teeth tingling as my jaw changed, crackling— —and Christophe grabbed my father’s shoulder and dragged him back, away from the slowly opening door.
