“He hasn’t many left,” Miss Stubin says.
Janie presses her lips together and takes a deep breath. “He’s my father. You knew that, right?”
Miss Stubin shakes her head. “I didn’t know. So it’s hereditary, then. I’ve often wondered. It’s why
I didn’t have children.”
“Did you—?” Janie’s suddenly struck by a thought. “You’re not related, are you? To us, I mean?”
Miss Stubin smiles warmly. “No, my dear. Wouldn’t that be something?”
Janie laughs softly at the craziness of it. “Do you think that maybe there are others out there, then? Besides me?”
Miss Stubin clasps Janie’s hand and squeezes. “Knowing that Henry exists gives me hope that there are more. But dream catchers are nearly impossible to find.” She chuckles. “Best thing you can do to find them is to fall asleep in public places, I guess.”
Janie nods. She glances at Henry. “How am I supposed to help him?”
Miss Stubin raises an eyebrow. “I don’t know, but you know what to do to find out. He’s already asked you for help.”
“But . . . I don’t see . . . and he’s not leading me anywhere.” Janie looks around the near-vacant gymnasium, looking for clues, trying to figure out what she could possibly do to help Henry. Not wanting to get too close.
Finally, Janie turns to Henry and takes a deep breath, glancing at Miss Stubin briefly for support.
“Hey there,” she begins. Her voice shakes a little, nervous, scared, not sure what to expect. “How can I help you?”
He stares at her, a blank look on his face. “Help me,” he says.
“I—I don’t know how, but you can tell me.”
“Help me,” Henry repeats. “Help me. Help me. Help me. HELP me. HELP ME. HELP ME! HELP
ME!!” Henry’s voice turns to wild screams and he doesn’t stop. Janie backs away, on her guard, but he doesn’t come toward her. He reaches to his head and grips it, screaming and ripping chunks of hair from his scalp. His eyes bulge and his body is rigid in agony. “HELP ME!”
His screams don’t end. Janie is frozen, shocked, horrified. “I don’t know what to do!” she yells, but her voice is drowned out by his. Terrified, she looks for Miss Stubin, who watches intently, a little fearfully.
And then.
Miss Stubin reaches out.
Touches Henry’s shoulder.
His screams stutter. Fail. His ragged breaths diminish.
Miss Stubin stares at Henry, concentrating. Focusing. Until he turns to look at her and is quiet.
Janie watches.
“Henry,” Miss Stubin says gently. “This is your daughter, Janie.”
Henry doesn’t react. And then his face contorts.
Immediately, the scene in front of Janie crackles. Chunks of the gymnasium fall away, like pieces of a broken mirror. Bright lights appear in the holes. Janie sees it happening and her heart pounds. She shoots a frantic glance at Miss Stubin, and at her father, desperate to know if he understands, but he is holding his head again.
“I can’t stay in this,” Janie yells, and she gathers up all her strength, pulling out of the nightmare before the static and blinding colors overtake her again.
2:20 a.m.
All is quiet except for the ringing in Janie’s ears.
Minutes pass as Janie lies facedown, unmoving, unseeing, on the clammy tile floor of the hospital room. Her head aches. When she tries to move, her muscles won’t comply.
2:36 a.m.
Finally, Janie can see, though everything is dim. She grunts and, after a few tries, shoves to her feet, steadying herself against the wall, wiping her mouth. Blood comes away on her hand. She moves her tongue slowly around, noting the cut inside her cheek where she apparently bit down during the nightmare. Feels her neck, her throat, gingerly. Her stomach churns as she swallows blood-thickened saliva. Janie squints at her watch, shocked that so much time has gone by.
And then she turns to look at Henry. Runs her fingers through her tangled hair as she stares at his agonized face, frozen into the same horrible expression as in his dream when he screamed over and over again.
“What’s wrong with you?” she says. Her voice is like the static in the nightmare.
She bites her bottom lip and still she watches from a distance, remembering Henry the madman.
He’s unconscious. He can’t hurt me.
She doesn’t believe it, so she says it aloud, to herself and to him. “You can’t hurt me.”
That helps a little.
She steps closer.
Next to his bed.
Her finger hovers above his hand and Janie imagines him jumping up, grabbing her with that cold death-grip. Tearing her throat out. Strangling her. Still, slowly, she lowers her hand and lays it on top of Henry’s.
He doesn’t move.
His hands are warm and rough.
Just like a father’s hands should be.
2:43 a.m.
It’s too late for the bus.
When she is able, Janie meanders her way through the hospital and down to the street. Slowly limps home in the dead of night.
MONDAY