Nor have I ever given much credence to the supernatural nature of dreams. I suppose that my beliefs follow the lines of mainstream psychology—that dreams are just repressed thoughts that slip out at night, like teenagers after their parents are asleep. Having said this, there was something so singularly powerful and peculiar about the dream I had that night that I couldn’t help but wonder about its source. I’ll leave it to you to determine its origin. As for me, it changed my heart.

I dreamt that I was back out on highway 90, sweaty and hot, my backpack heavy on my shoulders, my legs weary from the day’s travel. I was walking the same road where Pamela had fallen the day before. Actually, it was the same time that Pamela had fallen, as I could see her ahead of me on the ground, and myself, crouched over her, helping her. At least that’s what I thought I was doing. As I neared I could hear her screaming in agony. That’s when I saw that I held a hammer in my hand. I was nailing Pamela to a cross.

I shouted at myself to stop, but neither of the figures in my dream could hear me. I ran to my own side and tried, in vain, to stop my arm. “Leave her alone!” I shouted. “She’s suffered enough!”

Just then there was another voice, even more pained than mine. “Stop! Please, stop.”

The three of us looked up. McKale was standing in the road ahead of us. She was barefoot and tears were streaming down her cheeks. “Stop,” she said softly. “Stop hurting my mother.”

I looked back down and Pamela looked into my eyes. “Please,” she said. “Grace.”

I woke, my sheets soaked with sweat. I looked over at the red digits of the motel clock. It was almost 4 A.M. It took me an hour to fall asleep.

When I woke I took an extra long shower. I sat on the floor of the shower bath and let the warm water flow around me, relaxing my mind. I shaved in the tub, then got out and packed my things. A little after seven I knocked on Pamela’s door. It took her a couple of minutes to open.

“Sorry,” she said. “I was still getting ready.”

Somehow, she looked different to me. Whether the change was real, or only in my mind, there was a difference. When I was a teenager my father told me that when we hate someone we make them more powerful than they are. By that measure, Pamela had been a giant in my life. Not now. Not anymore. The curtain had been pulled aside. She looked small and vulnerable.

“Would you like to get some breakfast?” I asked.

“I’d love to.”