Dust lives in the heart of the abandoned building, shafted through with patchwork light. Within the decay sits the searing yellow of an aegis, like a neon dome in one of those all-wood, all-dust Earth revival shops. Misery pulled it off a builder abandoned in the desert to protect her secret lab.

A silhouette stands in that otherworldly glow: a tall, thin figure with an infinitely graceful air. A lanky saint in a long creamy robe, edged in gold with lace at the throat. Deep-set eyes, pale and watery, wire-wrapped glass pinching the bridge of hir nose. Sandy hair spills over hir shoulders like spun sugar. On hir narrow breast sits a teardrop of something that looks like labradorite, possibly the mundane sort.

Misery approaches this figure with animal wariness. Acid coats her tongue and crawls down the back of her throat. The last time she felt like this in a dream, she met Ruin. Fragments of the void lurk here and she can’t be too careful. The dream-apparition says nothing as she comes closer, studying her with the intensity of a curious beast trying to determine if she is friend, foe, or food.

“Who are you?” she asks. “What are you doing here?”

“Here? Where is here?”

The stranger’s voice is soft as cotton, and hir syllables carry a lilt she can’t place. Zie reminds her of Ghost and the white saints, but more human. More color to hir skin, more imperfection in hir features. A slight slant to the nose, eyes slightly too far apart. Tall, but in an unfortunate manner. Misery decides to humor hir. “This is Rootsdown. It’s where I grew up.”

“Where you grew up,” says the creature. “I see. So this is your dream.”

“It is.”

“What is your name, dream-maker?”

Misery stands within breathing distance of this fantasy creature with hir strange and quiet voice. The beguiling face, long and elfin. Heat wafts from hir skin, and the hairs on Misery’s forearm rise to catch it like a solar array. “I’m Misery Nomaki. She/they pronouns. You can use the first.”

“Misery Nomaki,” zie says, slow and careful, shaping her name like it’s charmed glass. “So, Misery it is, then?”

“If you want.”

“I’m Jericho. He/him pronouns.”

There’s something precious about a figment of a dream introducing himself like a real person. Her voidsick mind, snarled thick with stress, performs marvelous tasks. Conjures delusions and imbues them with desires. In Misery’s ever-flourishing crop of strange dreams, this might be one of the oddest. She studies this ersatz young man and wonders why she doesn’t know what to do. Dreams drive themselves with cryptic nonsense logic, but they always move forward. Here, time is at a standstill. Misery puts a palm to Jericho’s belly, flush against the honeyed silk, and feels the soft rise and fall of his breaths.

“What are you looking for?” Jericho asks.