Hannah

I'M DREAMING.

HANNAH

I've never been a lucid dreamer who's acutely aware of the distinction between dreamland and reality. Every night, if I dream at all, I go about them blissfully unaware that my actions are anything but real.

Except for one dream.

One I wish would stop coming. I've learned to recognize its signs. An uneasy feeling prickling at the back of my neck, followed by loud blood pumping in my ears, until—

The shed.

I freeze in place, staring at the surrounding sunflowers and its rusted white paint.

That's how it is. Average, pleasant dream, followed by a shed in the most peculiar of places. Sometimes it reveals itself while I'm walking the dreamlands of Central Park, or outside the office I work at, or in my very own living room, balancing atop the couch and coffee table.

But tonight... tonight it seems to be where it truly lives, where it's always been.

My family's farm.

I approach it with caution, the backyard's overgrown grass brushing up against my shins. Over my should