Farmer grabbed my hand and dragged me out of the barn. A great wind had picked up, and I didn't have to look to see its source. The Stompers had found us, quicker than ever before.

“But I don't know everything yet!” I yelled over the wind. “Where is the Dream Warden? How do I use the Power?”

“We can't chance it!” Farmer yelled back. “You'll figure it out yourself. If we don't get you out now, it's over. Run for the Door, go!”

I didn't want to, but I did what he said. I turned and ran straight for it, pounding the wheat stalks under me with every step. Behind the Door, moving toward us like a black wave, was the wall of the Stompers. Wind tore at my back as the wall tried to suck everything into it. If it got much closer, it would be strong enough to lift me off the ground.

But the Door was close now, and I knew I would make it without the tense moments of the last time I'd met Farmer. I ran the last few steps and grabbed the handle. Just before I pushed it open, I looked back at the old Giver.

He waved, a simple act of lifting his hand and then letting it fall back to his side.

I nodded to him and then went through the Door.

I closed it from the other side, and did a double take. The instant it sealed shut, it transformed back into the plain white door of the apartment. I was surprised to feel a twinge of sadness, knowing that would be my last magical door.

I turned to tell Inori about what happened.

She was sitting on the couch, but she wasn't alone.

Hood was standing next to her, looking at me through his old, dirty robe.

I leaned back against the door. Inori's face was ashen, and her eyes were sullen. Hood's head was drooping.

Something was wrong. Well, more wrong than having a whole world taken over by ghostlike Freddy Kruegers.

“Hood, has it really been two hours?”

His pale hand came out of his robes and he held up five fingers.

“Five hours?” It seemed impossible that much time had passed. “Well, what's wrong? Inori, you look terrible.”

She nodded her head to the far wall that had the door to the kitchen. It had been the only one in the house with some color—a fading puke green. Now, white painted words were scrawled all over it from top to bottom.

One sentence, right in the middle, stood out like a naked sumo wrestler in a room full of ballerinas.

“THEY HAVE JIMMY'S FAMILY AND WANT TO MAKE A DEAL.”