“Give it over, faggot,” dream Rafael said, just like the real Rafael had.

Brandon wished his dream self were cleverer than the real Brandon had been that day. He wished he could come back to Rafael with a witty retort.

It didn’t matter. The dream always played out the same way. He could only say and do the things he’d said and done when it had really happened.

Rafael, though, changed from dream to dream. He got worse every time.

The real Rafael hadn’t been much taller than Brandon, and he’d had darting, nervous eyes and tobacco-stained fingers. The dream Rafael was ten feet tall, with long, sharp teeth that glinted when he spoke and huge hands that curved up like claws.

So dream Brandon cried, just like the real Brandon had that day. And as soon as the first tear leaked from his eye, the panic came on.

The panic attacks had started in kindergarten, when his parents used to fight a lot. Out of nowhere, Brandon would suddenly get terrified, and then he couldn’t breathe, and then the earth would fall out from under his feet. It felt like he was dying. After his dad moved out, the attacks started to fade. He hadn’t had one for six months before that day with Rafael, and he hadn’t had any more since he’d left for Acheron. But every time he had this dream, he could feel the attack coming on just as clearly as it had that afternoon.

He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. The knife Rafael thrust toward his face was hazy in his blurred vision. He was certain he was going to die.

Brandon had to try three times to pull his arms out of the straps of his backpack and hand it to the man with the knife. There wasn’t even anything valuable inside—only his textbooks, his costume from the school play, and his wallet with a couple of dollars and his student ID—but Rafael never looked inside. Instead he swung the backpack over his shoulder and held the knife up in front of Brandon’s face.

Just long enough for the panic to fade. For Brandon to think he really was about to die. To wonder how much it would hurt.

Then Rafael turned and ran, the soles of his sneakers pounding against the pavement. He looked back over his shoulder to make sure Brandon had stayed put. That was the last time Brandon saw his face.

It was getting dark. A streetlight came on. Rafael’s eyes gleamed in the reflected light.

The dream should’ve been over.

It wasn’t. Brandon knew how this part went. He knew Rafael would be back.