In my dream this morning, Travis was running around the apartment with a handgun. It wasn't one of those little .25 caliber deals that he liked so much (most little guys like big guns, but not Travis). This one was a big black nine-millimeter monster, thick-handled, counter-weighted barrel. I could hear his boots thumping against the hardwood floor, the clean sounds of his black leather jacket jangling and rustling, and that snicker.
He was so real and so complete I could smell him - musty, with a hint of something like stale tapwater. And when he shot me, I stood there in stunned wonder, dropped to my knees, and thought to myself: the dead have returned to kill me.
He was so real and so complete I could smell him - musty, with a hint of something like stale tapwater. And when he shot me, I stood there in stunned wonder, dropped to my knees, and thought to myself: the dead have returned to kill me.