“Come back,” she whispered, but it kept fading. Maren had to be careful not to gorge herself on these dreams, because reality hurt a thousand times worse after they wore off. She kicked away the blankets and lay there, letting the fragments float in the edges of her mind. As she inhaled more of whatever was cooking in the kitchen, her stomach began to gurgle. She heard her mother’s voice, then her father’s. Maren glanced at her clock. It was only six thirty. They never both got home this early. She wondered if something was wrong, if they’d somehow found out what she’d done.

With a bat flapping around in her stomach, Maren tiptoed down the hall, straining to hear what her parents were saying. Then her mother burst out laughing, quickly joined by her father’s low guffaw. Maren couldn’t remember the last time they’d laughed like that. She dashed into the kitchen and found both of her parents leaning against the counter, a pot of soup simmering on the stove.

“Oh good, you’re awake,” Maren’s mom cranked the pepper grinder over the steaming soup.

“What were you laughing at?” Maren leaned against the opposite counter, afraid to break this fragile and rare moment of happiness.

“There’s a new sandwich guy at the lunch place next to my work,” said Maren’s dad. “And they have this special where you can get half a sandwich and a cup of soup. So the lady in front of me orders the special and asks for half a turkey sandwich.”

Maren’s mother’s shoulders shook as she stirred the soup. She knew what was coming next.

“So the guy makes a turkey sandwich, cuts it in two, and gives her half. And then he leans over the counter and says to me”—Maren’s dad’s voice dropped to a whisper—“I never know what to do with the other half.”

Her mom let out a blare of a laugh, a sound Maren hadn’t heard in ages. Her dad waited for her to do the same.

“I…don’t get it,” she said.

“He could just cut one piece of bread in half to make the half sandwich.” Maren’s mom took a sip from her glass of wine. Her dad picked up a knife and started slicing bread. He’d even stopped at the nice bakery to get a French baguette.

“Oh, right.” Maren felt silly for not thinking of that, but her parents were happy and this was so rare and she should try to be happy, too. Even though…

Maren pushed the idea out of her head. Even though nothing.

“I bet he has a whole stash of half sandwiches somewhere,” said Maren’s mom. “He probably smuggles them out when he leaves at night.”