I stare at my closet door. The space beneath the door is dark. The clock face glows red: 2:37 a.m.

Tickatick. The sounds are real enough, the rest of the dream some rancid, shameful cloud that I try to clear from my mind as I sit up. God. Kincaid, as some thing. Some creature.

Turn on the lamp, stare hard at the closet, then grab A Clockwork Orange from the nightstand—my best protection, some skinny little paperback. Go to the closet door, test the knob, compelled to repeat the dream’s pattern.

The light from my bedside lamp casts a dim glow inside the closet. Nothing but the stain. The shoebox. But I hear another tickatick. I pull the chain to the closet bulb.

They’re walking the ceiling. Moths, at least half a dozen. The light sends them into motion, one dive-bombing me, driving me back against the door with a gasping curse.

I dart out, slam the door, hearing them battling the bulb now—scritchscritchscritch-tickaticktick. I jump into bed, yank the comforter over my head, eyes wide in the soft, crumpled dark.

It’s Saturday, and I’m scratchy from lack of sleep, from lying awake listening to the sound of insect bodies bouncing off a lightbulb, wondering if my nightmare somehow ripped a hole in reality to let those things in.

I shower, inhale breakfast, then drag Ma’s vacuum cleaner into my room, grab the hose, and throw open the closet door, jabbing the nozzle to the ceiling before their tiny bug brains have a chance to register fight or flight.

When it’s done, I think I stand a chance of sleeping in this room again.

Ma comes out of the bathroom, does a double take at the door when she spots the vacuum. “Whoa.” She puts her hands up. “Sorry. Thought I saw you cleaning for a second there.”

“Must’ve been all that acid in the sixties.”

“Ha-ha. Don’t even joke about me being that old.” She leans on the doorframe. “I’m heading to Bangor. Groceries and stuff. Want to come?”

“Nah. I’ve got plans.” With Kincaid.

After lunch, I ask Dad if I can borrow his car, then head out, casting a look over at Bree’s window. No obvious signs of life. Faye’s Jeep is in the lot, so I’m guessing Bree’s probably hanging out in her room, avoiding her mom.

You ride high in Dad’s Suburban, and it’s strange, looking down at the street from up here, seeing all our shortcuts and escape routes from a bird’s-eye perspective. Wonder if this is sort of how Kincaid feels most of the time, flying above the sidewalk on his board, rarely touching down.

The dream left me spooked, begging for an analysis I’m not sure I want to make. But I’m sure I want to see him, make sure he’s okay, then finally get some answers.