Clayton remains in an oblivious slumber by my feet, announcing his indifferent stance on the recent events with voluminous snores—loud enough to make any lawn mower proud.

I’m overloaded. My eyes droop like the wax of a candle at the bottom of its wick.

No! I protest to myself. You must make it back to the barn before you rest. You can do this Addison.
Up the hill I trudge. Past the blank headstone. Through the field of corn and into the Safe Haven barn. I collapse into a pile of old hay. Asleep as I fall.

Falling.

My body hits the soft hay like it’s water—catching my weight with a bob of buoyancy, and then I submerge as all support gives out.

Sinking.

Ground zero of my dream is the farm. Safe Haven barn sways beneath the hypnosis of water like corn stalks in the wind.

I don’t notice Clayton lying in a pool of his own death until a sharp and stealthy talon slides over my neck. My head tilts back. A cloud of my own crimson blood flows heavy, floating up, pooling at the surface.