5

Muriel tried to keep her eyes open. She dozed, then woke, then dozed again. She had folded Roxanne’s blanket in half, making two layers, and crawled between them. The lower layer was too thin to protect her from the acorns and pebbles strewn in the clearing. The top layer was too thin to keep her warm. She pulled the upper part of the blanket closer to her chin and felt a cool breeze against her legs where her slacks had pulled away from her socks, leaving her skin bare. There was something she was supposed to be doing. But she couldn’t think what it might be.

Her dream was a peaceful place. She was ten years old, walking home from school in the snow, clutching a library book in one hand. When she got home, her father would build a fire in the fireplace. Her mother would have warm cookies on a plate. Muriel’s whole body relaxed, secure in the comforts of her childhood.

The rustle of heavy footsteps in dried leaves disturbed her peace. The noise overshadowed the voices of parents in her dream calling to their children. But wait. There were no dried leaves in her dream. There was only snow. Snow didn’t rustle. Snow didn’t have a musty smell either.

She drifted off once more. Just a few more minutes. She would worry about everything in the morning. Something heavy came down on her chest. Kevin. She had forgotten about Kevin. About the carjacking. Oh, my. She should wake up. She had a plan. She tried to move her arms, but it was too late. She was trapped. Anyway, she couldn’t remember what her plan was. Tiredness wrapped around her like a thick fog, as if nothing else mattered. Her eyelids fluttered halfway open. The night was pitch black. In the morning, she would be able to see.

The smell of leaves was fading now; the snow-packed streets of her dream deserted. She started up the wide front steps of her childhood home and, before she reached the front door drifted back to unconsciousness.