By way of the faint light of a flickering candle cutting through the shadows, we see the outline of him laying there. His sun starved, ochre brown skin glows golden. 

It was now or never.

Tossing his comforter back, sitting himself up, he dangles his legs off of the edge of his bed. Taking in a deep breath, his right hand reaches up to his shirt’s collar. Hidden under his shirt he closes his fist around what I assume to be an otherwise unseen piece of jewellery; some kind of good luck charm. Giving it a gentle squeeze and a shake he lets go. 

Snuffing out his candle, he reaches out, wraps his arms around the brass pole, and pulls himself forward, sliding down it to the cold stone floor below.

Stepping into his slippers, off he goes. Luckily, no cats follow.

Carefully navigating the maze of ancient dusty bookstacks, going unnoticed; he arrives at the entrance to an office.

Opening the glass fronted, ornately carved, wood framed door, it identified by a bold, black, gold trimmed ‘Private’ sign on the glass. He enters the darkened room.

Spying the book’s home, a tall, glass fronted, locked, book cabinet, it next to a door opening into an even darker room, he makes his way past a cluttered writing desk. He jimmies the fancy brass lock; it so old and oxidized that it’s finish has turned a blackish and corroded tarnished green. And just like that, the matter of access is no longer an issue. At this point, all that is left for him to do is to liberate the book from the cabinet, give it a quick read, and then return it, undetected, before daybreak.

Wincing in anticipation of the telltale squeak of long dry hinges; a concern, as he can hear the sounds of the book’s owner gently snoring in the very next room; he ever so carefully opens the door. Surprised by the still of the night staying silent; his luck lingering, he reaches for his reward.

With the book in hand, thus guilty, if found, he clutches it to his chest. Tiptoeing, hoping to not to be overheard, he sneaks it back to his bed.

With him having absconded away with this book, having gone unnoticed making his way back to his room, he climbed his bed’s ladder and tucked himself in. Wanting to start reading immediately, he relights his candle, it just bright enough to read by. And boy did he read.

As such, he wouldn’t be in the state that we saw him in, that is, if what he found within, wasn’t so riveting. If it didn’t read like a true page turner; only it did. 

So yes, no surprise, even though he had to fight to convince his tired eyes to stay open, they, encouraged by how enthralled he was by what was within;

Well, no surprise, as the pages turned so did the minutes into hours, with it, melting, the boy’s mind into a sleep deprived mushy mush. Regardless, he kept reading and reading, that is until he, mid sentence, drifted off into a deep sleep, finding himself in a dream in which he’s standing next to the operative in the story he had just been reading, just as the operative was attempting to make a daring escape. It necessary as the operative, and now the boy as well, had been found out. Complicating this was that their pursuers, now hot on their heels, were about to catch them up. Worse yet, the operative, with the boy at their side, having skirted past several guards, had come to a dead end. It, in the form of a sharp and steep cliff’s edge! Out of options, and not wanting to get caught, the agent and the boy, with their pursuers closing in, were forced to crawl over the cliff’s ledge and down the disturbingly, nay, shockingly high cliff face. Something which the boy is surprisingly pretty comfortable with given his penchant for climbing everything and anything. Skills developed by him literally climbing the shelves and the rock walls of the junior fiction section. 

Anyway, I’m assuming that this was where the boy’s dream started to sour. When it, up until then, full of action and adventure, started to feel more like a nightmare.

And why wouldn’t it!

Think about it.

How would you feel if you found yourself at the side of an operative as the two of you clung to the side of a cliff, where to keep from falling you have to have your scratched and bloodied fingers stuck into unwelcoming sharp and narrow crags. Where your only chance of survival is to desperately keep clinging to the sheer, wet rock; worse yet, for you to realize that you are unable to move forward as your next toehold is well out of your reach. 

That’s right, given no choice, while attempting to climb down the treacherously slippery cliff, the boy and the agent found themselves facing a quandary; what can only be described as a dead end. No surprise, neither one of them likes what the name implies. Yet, like it or not, still, they find themselves there, unable to go up, and a long way to go down.

The agent, used to being in tight places, and not one to give up: not feeling confident and not looking particularly convincing, reassures him, “I’ve been in worse places before! We’ll make it out of this; I’m pretty sure. That is if we put our all into a jump, that we can land on that narrow crag below! If we can, there’s no way they’ll be able to follow us! Just do exactly as me! Monkey See Monkey Do! Got it!” The look of concern never leaving the boy’s face, just like the belief of the words were lacking on the operatives.

The thing is, even in dreams, things don’t always go to plan.

For the boy, having rock climbed often enough before, thus knowing his limits, he’s not convinced that he can make it. In fact he lets the agent know that he’s sure he can’t. Certainly not with how the wind is working against them. And worse again, how the rain is picking up, this making the rock slippier by the second.

Deciding that their only chance is to wait out those above, the boy’s fingers painfully cramp, his hands seize, he starts to panic; causing him to hyper-ventilate. Not sure what to do, not soothed by the agent’s calming words, knowing better, he looks down.

​

           Suddenly,

                   his fingers start to slip, 

                   he loses his grip.

           Seeing him fall, the agent reaches out to grab him, to save him. Only, just as their fingertips touch,

                  the agent’s other hand slips,

                         they  too lose their grip,

                         they too,

                         find themselves freefalling

                                 where they,...

                                 short of a miracle,

                                 literally plummeting,

                                 are headed towards a

                                 pancake shaped death.

Which is why, as of now, with us watching him in his sleep, given how he’s thinking he’s plummeting, his arms should be flailing, only, try as he may, he can’t get them around. This on account of  how his comforter has both his arms and legs pinned. At the same time, he’s in the middle of an extended, blood curdling, dream scream, only, his mouth is wide open but no sound comes out! For him it feels like someone has their hand clamped down over his mouth! In reality it’s no more than his pillow doing its best to silence him. And Yes, no surprise, this exacerbates his stress. 

Just as he and the agent falling next to him are about to meet their end, just as he sees the sharp point of a rock about to meet his face, a harsh sound cuts his nightmare short.

Coming to life, an alarm barks out at him.

Thankfully, just in time, it drags him up and out from his dream world and into the room. It saving him from what must have seemed to be an inevitable, life ending, bone crushing, face plant of death. 

Snapping to, with realizing where he is, and OF WHERE HE HAD JUST BEEN. Reeling in the hangover from his nasty dream, complete with its residual fear, stress, accompanying sweat, and  racing heart, well, while this would be enough to make any head ache, compounding the agony, what is currently really hurting the boy’s head, and let’s make no mistake about this, is the insidious, ear piercing, sound which woke him. It still emanating from the speaker placed next to his bed.

It, a harsh, unpleasant, mind cramping sound which he is all too familiar with, as it is the sound which has accompanied the start of most every day he’s lived. And no, it’s not the sound of an irritating radio host, nor is it the klaxon of a high pitched, screaming horn, nor the recorded crow of a morning rooster. It’s not even the irritating metal on metal clanging you would get with a Big Ben styled alarm clock.

​

Nope,

​​

it’s much worse than all that.

It’s THEM!