Her dreams were filled with visions of huge mongrel dogs, their saliva-flecked jaws snapping hungrily as they chased her through the dark woods that surrounded Kingsbury. The squeal of a truck’s bad brakes outside her window made her eyes flutter open, and she glared at the wan morning light filtering through her bedroom window. Her legs ached as if she had run a marathon. The dread and terror of her nightmares lingered and she intended to get up right away, not wanting to descend back into dreams. Instead, she rolled over and promptly fell back to sleep. When she woke again, her head ached and she had cotton-mouth in the worst way. Reaching for the glass of water she always kept on her bedside table, she groaned as she caught sight of the clock. It was after nine o’clock. She hated sleeping late. Rose dragged herself from bed, went into the kitchen to pour herself some orange juice, and then opened her door to pick up the newspaper from her doormat. Thursday. And her grandfather was still dead, his wake and funeral yet to come.
