The Dream Runner by Kerry Schafer Read Free Book Online

thud. "Well, you're going to have to sleep if you want to dream. Otherwise it doesn't work."
    For a long moment she stared, then reached out an index finger to touch, jerking away again as though it had stung her. "That's it?"
    "That's it. Here's how it works. When you are ready for the dream you take it in your room and close the door. Open the stopper, go to sleep, and bingo. One custom designed dream just for you. You might want to make sure your kid is safe in bed."
    Her eyes widened at that. "What if he walks in—you know—in the middle…"
    "Won't know a thing, long as he's awake. If he slept with you, that might be a problem."
    She shook her head. "No, no, he sleeps in his own room." Her hand reached out again and this time she picked the bottle up and carried it to her chest, where she held it against her heart. A pink color flushed her cheeks; her lips were parted, her eyes shone.
    "Thank you."
    "Don't thank me," I said. I meant it.
    I let myself out. She was too busy stroking that damned bottle.

Chapter Seven
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    I spent the morning cleaning. Normally I'm not much with the domestic stuff but I had adrenaline to burn. Besides, the state of the house really bothered me, and it was piled full of memories as potent as ghosts. Open an empty closet, and a memory would fall out. Dad and me, making pizza in the kitchen. Will and me, as kids, running everywhere, climbing trees, playing on the pond.
    By noon I had the boxes all neatly stacked in the carport. I'd found cleaning supplies under the sink, and I'd scrubbed the kitchen and the bathrooms, and washed the worst of the stains off the walls.
    My stomach was giving me a hard time, all that work without breakfast, and I put together a lunch from the basics I'd picked up for myself while I was in town. I was plenty hungry but the house wouldn't let me eat. So I stuffed my sandwich into a bag and went out looking for the tree I'd tagged as mine, early in childhood. Will had one, too, far enough away that we could be silent and alone when we wanted; close enough that we could laugh and talk on those other days.
    The tree hadn't changed at all while I was away. The familiar branches waited to embrace me. The sharp fir scent, not so acidic as pine, cleared the cobwebs from my head; the roughness of bark beneath my hands, the globules of pitch and the tiny bits of moss calmed and centered my body.
    My favorite perch is about halfway up, where it's hard to see me from down below but I can look out over the house and the yard, watching the road without being seen. Off to the right there's a mountain that is always bluer than the lake, just visible from here as a silver shimmer.
    For the first time all day I felt safe and sheltered. Grounded. That tree was a good fifty years old, had been there since before I was born. The sun filtered through the branches and warmed my skin. There was just enough wind to rock me a little. Insects buzzed. I ate my lunch, and then nearly drifted into sleep. Not so good in a tree. I'd be bound to tumble down, scraping all of the skin off my body and breaking a bone at the bottom. So I dozed, but didn't sleep.
    The sound of a motor startled me fully awake, and I watched the trail of dust follow a black, shiny pickup all the way into the yard. Marsh.
    I waited for him to go into the house, not particularly wanting him to see me climb down out of a tree like I was ten. Not when the first thing on my agenda was to give him hell for his handling of the renters.
    He was taking pictures of the kitchen when I bounced in the front door, primed and ready to start in with the lecture. When he saw me he put the camera down and gave me one of the smiles that had lured girls into his bed—or the back of his pickup truck—for years. And just like that, the words of my tirade vanished. Poof. Some men are like that. Even though inside my head I knew full well Marsh was nothing but trouble, my body had thrown a frontal lobe override switch