As I watched, the wispy nimbus haloing the baby’s head thickened to form a crown of blond curls. The tiny features crystallized into a familiar pattern. The irises morphed from blue to green.

Katy!

I tried calling out. Again and again.

No sound left my throat.

Desperate, I strained to get to my daughter.

My legs were lead.

The water now covered Katy’s belly.

The tide was rising!

Heart pounding, I pumped my legs harder.

The gap between us grew wider.

A figure materialized on the beach, indistinct. Face, even gender, unclear.

I struggled to call out.

The figure did not react.

I pulled with all my strength.

My efforts were futile.

The water now covered Katy’s chest.

I shouted again, tears streaming my cheeks.

The scene shimmied like a desert mirage.

The water rose to Katy’s chin.

I strained with every fiber in my body.

Screamed.

The scene popped. Evaporated like confetti in mist.

I blinked, confused.

I was sitting rigid in bed, heart pounding, skin slick with perspiration. My hands clutched the sheets in tight little balls.

The digits on the clock said 5:42. A predawn gray lit the windows I’d failed to curtain five hours earlier.

Outside, the snow shower had stopped, but the nameless oval of water looked dark and frigid. Inside, the air felt cold enough to make ice.

I relaxed my fingers, lay back, and drew the quilt to my chin.

Just a dream.

Just a dream.

Following the mantra, I tried my usual post-nightmare deconstruction. Which requires no sophisticated psychoanalytical skill. My subconscious isn’t all that creative. The old id just spits out a remix of recent events.

Baby under threat. No Freudian mindbender there.

Katy. I hadn’t talked to my daughter in a week.

The beach. My iPhone was still broadcasting soothing sea sounds.

The hazy figure. That one called for some digesting.

Annaliese Ruben for murdering her children? Ronnie Scarborough for possibly threatening Ruben? Ryan for abandoning our relationship?

My mother for potty-training me too early?

Whatever.

Tossing back the covers, I tiptoe-ran to my suitcase, pulled on jeans, a long-sleeved tee, my gray lululemon hoodie, sneakers, and socks. In June. Welcome to the subarctic. Or the tundra. Or wherever the hell we were.

Water on the face. Quick brush of the teeth. Hair up in a pony.

The clock said six. Praying the hotel had a restaurant and that it was open, I headed downstairs.

Happy day! The Trader’s Grill was serving up eggs. Or preparing to do so. A woman was positioning stainless-steel servers on a stretch of skirted tables spanning one wall. On hearing my footsteps, she turned and gestured toward a two-top at the windows. Her name tag said Nellie.

Nellie’s hair was black and braided down the center of her back. Her cotton blouse and long red skirt covered a body built along the lines of a Tonka truck.