- Portent -

IN HER DREAMS, the world was hinged and could swing open like a door. She struggled with bar and latch, with lock and bolt, until only her hands held the world closed. Held the world safe.

In her dreams, green liquid, like pus from a wound, seeped under the door that was the world, leaked along its sides, dripped from its top until it burned her from toe to hand to face, until it ate from her skin and flesh and bone.

In her dreams, she had the choice. To turn away and run, letting the world take care of itself . . .

Or to hold the door against death as long as she had life . . .

“. . . We’re losing her.”

“There’s nothing left to lose—”

“Tell that to her family! Forget the legs—get more gel on her midsection. Damn it—I said more . . .”

“No use. It’s over.”

In her dreams, the world was hinged and could close softly, like the lid of night, shutting out pain and fear, letting her rest.

“Next.”