Strange Light

Emma Kate

"I think," she said softly, "That I'm having day-mares."

The stuffed koala stared back at her through glassy brown eyes- she could see her reflection in them.

"Nightmares," she said. "Day-mares?"

She rolled over onto her back and sighed. The ceiling was as good at replying to her as her stuffed animals. But, like all the inanimate objects around her, the ceiling did its job: it kept her secrets.

The books she read always talked about dreams. The hero had a bad dream and wakes up knowing they saw something important.

She raised her arm and let her fingers trace invisible patterns on the ceiling. She thought it was an overused trope, though she wouldn't have known to use those words. She worried about her own experiences. These weren't the nightmares her favorite characters experienced.

She dropped her arm. "I see things," she whispered secretively to the ceiling. "Dreams are safe. Being awake is when all the stuff comes."

She put her hands to her eyelids and pressed hard, but she couldn't make the images go away. Five seconds, and they were gone, replaced with the view of her ceiling and a few stray stars from her confused brain.

The trip to the doctor had revealed nothing. Her parents were confused and then the doctors were confused. All the adults were confused. And now she was scared.

She was eleven years old.

She hugged her koala tightly. She was supposed to be sleeping. Her mother had hummed and rubbed her back after they came back from the doctor until she had closed her eyes, but as soon as her mom had crept out, they'd opened again. She could not sleep. She was scared.

Downstairs, the doorbell rang. She listened listlessly, hearing her father answer it. Male voices. She closed her eyes. Maybe she could sleep now that the lights had gone away.

More voices. Her mom and dad, and the strangers. Maybe they were the people in nice clothes who sometimes came by to talk about God, or a neighbor who'd heard she was sick.

She didn't know how much time had passed, but then she heard footsteps coming up the stairs outside her room. She was facing the far wall. The door to her room opened very slowly.

"Emma Kate? Emmy, baby, are you awake?"

Emma Kate didn't want to be awake. She wished she was sleeping. For some reason, she decided it would be best if she closed her eyes and pretended she was.

"She's sleeping," she heard her mom say to someone.

An unfamiliar voice, deep and apologetic, said, "It would be best if we got her to the hospital as soon as possible."

Emma Kate knew, without looking, that those words had scared her mother. They should have scared her, but they didn't. She knew, somehow, that it was true. She needed to go to the hospital. Something was wrong.

"She doesn't seem sick," Emma Kate's mother said.

"It's all neurological at this point."

A sharp exhale from her mom.

"Do- do we need to call an ambulance?"

"That won't be necessary. You can bring her. We'll be right behind you."

"Jeanie," Emma Kate heard her father say softly, "We have to wake her up."

Her mom took a deep breath, and then Emma Kate heard her familiar steps across her room. Her mom's hand landed gently on her arm, and she said softly,

"Emma Kate, baby, wake-up."

Emma Kate let her eyes flutter open as convincingly as possible.

"Hey... how are you feeling?"

Emma Kate nodded. It wasn't an answer, but she felt like her mother understood.

"We're going to take you to the doctor, okay?"

Emma Kate nodded again.

"You've been feeling bad, you know, so we're going to the hospital just to check you out and make sure you're okay."

Emma Kate's father stepped forward and held out his arms. Emma Kate was eleven and getting taller every day. She hadn't been held by her father in a while. She might have been able to walk, but she decided she didn't want to. She was scared and wanted to be held.

Her father carried her across her room to the doorway, where two men in suits and grave expressions were standing, like pieces of furniture that did not belong in the house. As she passed them, she caught one man's eye. He tried a reassuring smile but didn't quite manage it.

There was a cord hanging around his neck, and it swung as he turned to follow her. Her tired eyes found the badge at the end, and she caught the engravement written boldly across the front:

"CDC."