Perchance

~four~

Rory comes to slowly, things filtering into her cottony brain one at a time. The sound of water drops beating against canvas, the distant crash and rumble of thunder. The smell of rain and smoke, the way the light against her eyelids is orange and flickering, like fire or candles or - she opens her eyes - lanterns. And beyond them, torches staked into the ground.

She sits up in a feather bed piled with mounds of fresh, white blankets. Her hair is loose and falling down the half-bare skin of her back, over the straps of a cream-colored, delicate nightgown of satin and lace. It's beautiful, expensive, and definitely not hers.

She tries to look at the room around her but it's too gauzy, muted and soft - filtered through the thick mosquito netting draped around the entire bed. It shifts in the hot, damp breeze, rain pounding a ceaseless rhythm against the thick canvas ceiling and walls around her.

She's starting to seriously freak out.

Batting the netting aside, Rory finds a way out. Her bare feet touch a worn, woven rug that's spread across the rough wooden floor.

Except, it's not really a floor. More like an enormous deck, on which sits the giant, canvas-walled room she's in. She supposes it's technically a tent, but one unlike anything she's ever seen outside of glossy magazine photos of exotic glamping resorts. The main room is filled with the large bed she woke up in, along with a folding bedside table cluttered with leather-bound books and a lit oil lamp.

There are other lamps scattered about - suspended from the beams supporting the tent roof, lined up on the dining table, and clustered around a chess set on a small table beside a worn leather armchair. The chess pieces are arranged on the board as if mid-game, worn to a dull shine from the phantom touches of countless unknown players over the years.

In one corner there's a washstand with a porcelain pitcher and bowl. In the other sits an open trunk, spilling over with khaki pants and dusty boots and white button-down shirts, along with more books and sophisticated camera equipment, a shotgun and leather-sheathed machete standing propped against the raised lid.

From the corner of her eye, Rory would swear that she sees a tiny shadow darting across the floorboards. But when she turns to face it, there's nothing but a bit of sand swirling on the breeze.

She shakes the moment off, but can't help the slide of unease in her gut.

Swallowing, she keeps exploring. Beyond the main tent, an awning stretches over another section of the wooden platform, creating a porch. Rain falls in sheets from its edges, pelting into the dirt as lightning carves a blinding streak across the black sky.

Rory drifts to the edge of the porch, squinting through the water and darkness to see beyond it. The wind is cold and damp, plastering her nightgown back against her legs.

Jagged lightning bolts strike the earth in the distance, lighting the strange land in bright bursts. Shapes begin to form; things that are strange and angular, stark against the otherwise barren landscape. It takes her a long moment to realize that they're cacti.

And they are all that's there. Nothing but a few scattered cacti and miles of empty sand, stretching as far as Rory can see.

It's a vast desert. She's in a thunderstorm, in the middle of the desert, at least a thousand miles from her Massachusetts home.

She shivers, but it has nothing to do with the wind.

Where am I? And what is happening to me?

Thunder rumbles, and she can feel it shaking the boards beneath her feet. Rory waits for it to fade, but it doesn't - in fact, it seems to be growing closer.

Panicking, she realizes that it isn't thunder at all. It's an engine, and a moment later she sees a jeep appear on the horizon, its round headlights like laser eyes, slicing through the rain and dark - and bearing straight down on her.

She's tempted to run, but there's nowhere to go; she's in the only shelter for miles. So, balling her hands into tight fists that bleach her knuckles white and press tiny nail crescents into her palms, Rory waits to face whatever is coming.

The jeep roars up to the edge of the porch and the engine cuts off; now she can see that the roof has been removed, leaving the driver swearing loudly and soaked to the bone. He climbs out, and as the torchlight plays across the planes of his face, Rory senses something familiar about him.

Something in the dark wet hair and green eyes, tan skin stretching over broad shoulders and tall frame. And, unlike everything else here, he looks like he belongs back on the east coast; he's wearing a leather jacket, black t-shirt and boots, with worn jeans that hang low on his chiseled hips.

He leans against the car, squinting as the rain sluices across his face. Tiny rivers of it are coursing over his jacket; his jeans are soaked and droplets splash in the mud puddles around his beat-up boots. But he doesn't move, just takes in the massive tent, the inky black of desert sky, and Rory in her satin nightgown.

And then he grins, his whole face bright as the torchlight.

"Well, this is one heck of a nice dream."