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Back Reverie
Chapters (53)
  1. Front Cover
  2. Letter from the Author
  3. Title Page
  4. Copyright
  5. Contents
  6. • One •
  7. • Two •
  8. • Three •
  9. • Four •
  10. • Five •
  11. • Six •
  12. • Seven •
  13. • Eight •
  14. • Nine •
  15. • Ten •
  16. • Eleven •
  17. • Twelve •
  18. • Thirteen •
  19. • Fourteen •
  20. • Fifteen •
  21. • Sixteen •
  22. • Seventeen •
  23. • Eighteen •
  24. • Nineteen •
  25. • Twenty •
  26. • Twenty-One •
  27. • Twenty-Two •
  28. • Twenty-Three •
  29. • Twenty-Four •
  30. • Twenty-Five •
  31. • Twenty-Six •
  32. • Twenty-Seven •
  33. • Twenty-Eight •
  34. • Twenty-Nine •
  35. • Thirty •
  36. • Thirty-One •
  37. • Thirty-Two •
  38. • Thirty-Three •
  39. • Thirty-Four •
  40. • Thirty-Five •
  41. • Thirty-Six •
  42. • Thirty-Seven •
  43. • Thirty-Eight •
  44. • ∞ •
  45. • Thirty-Nine •
  46. • Forty •
  47. Epilogue
  48. Acknowledgments
  49. Excerpt from Be Dazzled
  50. One
  51. Two
  52. About the Author
  53. Back Cover

Kane took out the postcard Dr. Poesy had given him, his hands shaking. In the corner were the initials MO. Maxine Osman. Smothering dread curled in Kane’s throat as he forced himself to stare into the painting’s pleasant colors. The image wasn’t any different now that its creator was dead, yet it somehow brimmed with new life. It was all that was left of her, and so in a way it was where she existed now. Trapped, in her own watercolor world.

Kane thought of how he had stood and looked at the mill, imagining it in the dreamy brightness of watercolor. At the time it had felt like just another daydream, but now? He itched with his usual instinct to run, to hide. To stop himself from discovering anything else.

He knew now it wasn’t a daydream before—it was a memory.

Waves of anxiety bubbled up from his stomach. What had he done? Who was he? He didn’t want to remember, but he also didn’t have a choice. The truth was his only choice if he wanted to survive this story, Dr. Poesy had said.

Kane breathed steadiness into his nerves, imagining their frantic energy drifting from his hands as waves of writhing static. He shook himself out, hopping in a small circle, then hopping in the reverse direction to undo the coil. These small rituals often worked for him, and the tension eased from his body. He had made it this far, hadn’t he? He wasn’t going to let himself crack apart now.

“I’m not an egg,” Kane told the night, pulling out the journal. Into its soft leather cover, he whispered, “I’m not an egg.”

By now his only company on the path were the clots of gnats around his head, and the moths, and the occasional glimmer of moonlight on the creek’s edges. When he reached a bench beneath a lamp, he slumped into it and opened the journal.

Experimentally, Kane clicked the pen twice. It made a clean, expensive sound. He clicked it six more times, then drew a few squiggles.

“What your waking mind cannot bear,” Kane muttered, printing the words in careful letters. He read them over and over, until they no longer looked like words, finally turning to the postcard.