She looked up at her dad and he smiled again and pointed at another doll. This time the head shattered, without being hit, merely by the pointing of his finger.

Nem opened her mouth to ask, “Why kill the dolls?” but he had disappeared. All that remained was the slingshot lying where he’d sat.

Without warning, every dolls’ head burst, one-by-one. Little pieces of ceramic and plastic exploded into the air, and though she should have heard the cracks and the bangs, there was only silence. Nem felt separated from the scene as if a glass barrier had appeared. The aloneness stifled her as if a thick band had wound about her chest.

She began to cry but then came her father’s voice echoing in her head.

“Be brave little one. This is for you.”

The words repeated in her head, growing louder with each repetition.

She pushed her hands over her ears but still the volume grew and her head vibrated with the rhythm of the words. She screamed.

Nem clawed herself awake to stare at Patch, who’d climbed onto her pillow and wrapped himself around the side of her head. His purring body so close, he vibrated her pillow.

As she nudged Patch to the side, a thought entered her head. If she hadn’t brought him home and argued with her mom, Alan wouldn’t have become angry. Instead, right now, she’d be in her own bed.

When she saw her mom in the hospital, she’d be sure to apologize and promise to never argue again. She hoped her mom would let her keep Patch. They’d been through so much together.

Two days later, Nem felt as if she was one of the dolls, her own head shattering with the news delivered by the department lady.

Her mom was dead.

And she wasn’t allowed to keep Patch.

Her father’s dream voice came back to her as she fled to her bed to cry.

Be brave little one. This is for you.

And she wondered if this was for her, what she’d done to deserve her fate.

6

The sky was everything-is-just-terrific pastel-blue. Clouds floated fluffy and scornful in perfect symmetry, as if a masterful-hand positioned them just so for the viewing pleasure of the mortals below. On a day like today, with the weather warm and wonderful, William should be in an uplifted mood. His daily sabbatical stroll invigorating. Life should feel good.

But life wasn’t good. It would take more than blue skies and happy clouds to improve his existence. With each passing hour his disposition grew worse. Today was the worst of the worst.

Everything had begun with that terrible television show Good Morning Something-or-Other. He’d been eating his breakfast, always cereal and one piece of toast with a thin spread of butter, when the program came on.

William was a creature of habit; writing demanded discipline. A writer must know where he’ll be each working day so his mind is ready to perform. Unlike commuting to an office, his travel required visiting a deep dimension within himself.