When I fall asleep, I dream about a boat.
It is a white motorboat with no engine or wake, and it glides soundlessly across an ocean of black oil. All of us are on board— Finn, Ronan, me. There is a man at the steering wheel, but his back is to us and his form is cloaked with black shadows as thick as the oil. The shadows swirl around him like living things.
Something about the man is dangerous. Distrustful. I turn to Finn and Ronan, to warn them or ask for help, but the dream has skipped forward and suddenly they're gone. Then I see a freckled hand slipping frantically beneath the surface of the black ocean, and I realize that they're not just gone— they've fallen into the black oil ocean.
Fear catches in my throat. I reach for the steering wheel, trying to turn the boat around, but then a black hand slams down on my wrist and I'm trapped. I look up. The man has the face of Santy Santiago, and he smiles at me before pushing me over the edge of the boat.
I fall through the water like I'm falling through air. Nothing is substantial. I know that the ocean is depth-less, endless, and that I will never touch the bottom.
There's a flash of silver in the darkness. Two objects float next to each other: a gun the color of steel and a key dangling from a metal ring. It is a choice. But it only takes me a millisecond to decide. I reach for the gun, my hand brushing across the cool metal as oil floods my throat and fills my lungs, my finger already reaching for the trigger...
And then Finn is there. His face is covered with blood and he speaks through the oil, his voice cracked and solemn. "This isn't you," he tells me. I try to argue, to say that's he's wrong, this is me, but my mouth can't form words. Finn takes my hand in his and guides me away from the gun, closing my palm over the keys instead. "Guns are for closing. Keys are for opening."
Then he's gone. And Ronan has taken his place.
He is a boy made of oil; of black hair, black eyes, and dark intentions. Tears of blood stream from his eyes as he opens his mouth to speak. "You should have chosen the gun," he says. It's not a threat or a command, but a warning.
I jerk myself awake.
The world is dark. And I'm not lying in bed anymore. I'm not even in my cabin. I'm on my feet, standing outside, and in front of me is the—
"No," I breathe.
A light flicks on in one of the windows in the Director's cabin. Inside, Hecate begins to howl.
I don't think twice before turning around and sprinting back into the woods. My frantic race doesn't end until I'm back inside my cabin, the door locked, the curtains drawn. Only then do I allow myself to take a deep breath and piece together what just happened. Sleep-walking. I must have sleep-walked over to the Director's cabin. I have no idea what was going through my brain at the time— something about an ocean of oil or me slowly drowning or Finn covered in blood and probably dead?
On the other side of the cabin, Angela snores peacefully. This is real. But... my dream. It felt so true. As if it was more memory than nightmare.
No, not memory. Memory is thinking backward. This was... something else entirely.
I lean back into my pillows, staring wildly into the incessant darkness. Sweat trickles down the bridge of my nose. My heart is pounding. The night is so still, so quiet, I can almost hear the frenzied beats. And then I understand that my dream was more than just a vivid nightmare, more than just a twisted memory— it was a warning. Because when you're a little bit psychic, dreams are never just dreams— they're predictions. They're thinking forwards, not backward. They're the truth.
I realize that my left fist is still clenched shut. Dread steals me away as I slowly force open my fingers, revealing a silver key, cold and slick as if still coated with oil, pressed innocently against the center of my palm. Not only did I sleep-walk over to the Director's cabin— I also sleep-stole her keys to the camp motor-boat.
Fuck. This can't be good.