“Rain!” his aunt called out from the other room. “Shut it off!”

Inching progress, shuffling steps.

He made it to the alarm clock, but not to the bed.

Rain’s consciousness was snuffed out like a candle.

⊙

Cradle.

His dreams are strange.

A hand slamming down on the table, a paper beneath it. A mouth opening. A man that might have been Cradle’s father spoke, but it wasn’t words that came out. It was the frantic cries of the crowd, the screams, the shouted jumble.

The paper crumpled slightly as the hand on it closed into more of a fist.

In the background, a very prim and proper woman stood with her back to Cradle.

The parents, Rain interpreted. Disappointment and anger. I can understand that.

The scene changed. A balding man in a suit, sitting across from a desk. The bulletin board behind him had child’s artwork on it.

His expression was plaintive, worried. The words from that somber older man’s face were the scream of someone that had been burned, stopping as lips closed together, starting as they parted. His hand moved more papers, sorting through the pile in front of him.

Cradle’s point of view moved, shaking left and right as he shook his head.

The balding older man’s expression changed from worry to something stronger. Upset. Deep concern.

The principal, Rain interpreted. He’d seen variations on this. It was usually like this, or else smoke, rubble, or broken glass poured from people’s mouths instead of words. Cradle wasn’t doing so well?

He could understand that too.

It’s even of a similar vein. Unrealized potential, as far as I can understand it. Report cards, teachers, father figures, they want something from him and he doesn’t deliver. He doesn’t hand it over.

Then the long hallway. The trudge. Cradle’s hand was visible as he reached up to fix his glasses, as he reached out to the window. In the distance, far away, the sounds of disaster could be heard. The stampede, the fire.

School again? A lonely hallway? Isolation? I used to call him the recluse.

Cradle took off his glasses, and all was a blur. When he put them back on, he was facing teenaged peers.

Their faces moved as if they were shouting, expressions twisting. The only sound to come out was that of the stampede. Feet tromping, people shouting with words blending into one another. Teeth came together as a word was finished, and the sound was of a bone breaking. One of the teenagers pushed Cradle down. His glasses were set ajar by the fall.

This time, as he fixed the glasses, he was in the shopping center, standing.

Things moved as if in slow motion. Inevitable.

What does Cradle feel when he’s here? Dread?