It took Proto a couple blinks and breaths to decipher what had happened.

  A giant rat was scurrying away. Its severed tail lay next to Proto’s blade. It twitched one last time, then lay still.

  The tail-less rat squeaked angrily from the hallway, pausing and scowling back for a second, then resumed its escape around a corner.

  Proto looked grimly at the lifeless tail, then his cane-sword. “And so, my blade is baptized in the blood of foes.”

  Well, at least he’d executed his attack well. Sol’s Rebuke, Perkunos had called it. He’d spent a good part of his first 168 hours of training practicing it. His instructor would’ve praised his form.

  Of course my first kill is a rat, he mused. Correction, a rat tail. He grimly eyed its tannish-pink segmentation.

  “Proto gained 3 exp!” he mumbled, feeling delirious. “Should I loot the tail? Is it a craftable? A mixable? Proto ate Rat Tail! Proto lost 2 HP! Proto is poisoned. Proto is diseased.”

  Deciding not to eat Rat Tail, Proto resumed hurrying out of the strange house, passing through the hallway with teardrop-and-carnation wallpaper and out the front door.

  The mists had risen another inch and now were lapping at his shins. Gotta move! He tried to coax his limbs into a brisk jog.

  But now he noticed that his heels were dragging. And his arms and eyes were sagging, and his mouth was hanging open.

  He was zombie walking again.

  He tried to force himself to stride normally, as he had earlier. But it felt harder now. It felt like one of those nightmares where some shambling terror is approaching slowly, and you should be able to get away easily, but you just can’t coax your limbs into running.

  But why now? He looked down at the rising mist. Is it tied to that . . . ? Is it harder to sleepwalk as the mist rises? Is it because I’ve almost woken up?

  Maybe yes, maybe no, but it was time for him to go.

  He forced himself into an awkward trot, pushing himself along with his cane as he walked. This was helpful, since his arms seemed a bit less sluggish than his legs.

  No one would call his awkward shuffle with a cane and duffel bag a “run.” But at least it was faster than walking, let alone zombie walking.

  Passing that wood-paneled station wagon in the driveway, he observed that it looked awfully like the one he’d woken up in as a child, in one of his first major sleepwalking experiences.

  Was it the same one? Pausing, he turned to look at that rear-facing backseat.

  Sitting inside was a brown-haired woman in a red beret—a girl, really, probably under twenty. His age, come to think of it. The corners of her lips curved up mysteriously. She raised a hand.

  Normally, this might’ve been intriguing. But in his current state—thinking he was slipping away from his felony unseen—Proto felt roughly like he had when that girl in The Ring had started crawling out of the T.V.

  He turned and bolted. Or at least, he shuffled expeditiously with the aid of his cane.

  He thought he heard faint laughter in his wake. But maybe that was just the music of the wind, blowing through the ever-rising mists.

  Did that girl live there? Had she seen him emerging from the house? Was she going to chase him?

  He glanced over his shoulder and saw no sign of her. But that just made him worry even more what she was doing. Was she calling the police? Would he get home and find someone waiting for him?

  As he hobbled along and brooded on the dire possibilities, he felt like he were running through a nightmare—especially with the way the world looked dark and super-saturated, and his limbs trailed shadowy afterimages.

  Maybe she didn’t notice, he tried to reassure himself. Maybe she was just chilling in that backseat, scrolling through her phone, saw me walk by on the sidewalk, and gave me a friendly smile. Why not?

  . . . wait, what year is it again? Did people scroll through phones yet? Was she reading a book, maybe?

  Meanwhile, he was passing Cherry Blossom Lane, his childhood street, as more butterflies fluttered all around him. He was a little over halfway home, and the mists had only reached his thighs. They weren’t rising quite as quickly as he’d feared.

  Yeah, she was just chilling in the backseat, he reassured himself. Like that Arcade Fire song. Cozy. Reading a book. Why not?

  It was then that Proto realized his mistake. It brought him to a dead stop.

  The book in the basement. He’d left it open. He hadn’t closed it around that red-ribbon bookmark.

  Shit. He stared into space, wondering what he’d just done. Are they going to see it and realize? Are they going to take fingerprints? My first day as Sleepwalker-Proto, and already . . .

  After a moment of staring into the yawning chasm of possibilities, he shook his head. Step One was getting home safely. Figuring out how to clean up this mess would be Step Two.

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  He forced himself to resume his homeward shuffling. He took a few deep breaths, struggling to slow his racing thoughts and racing heartbeat.

  Eventually, his dreadful premonitions sobered up into rational analysis.

  He realized what he’d read in that book couldn’t have been a coincidence—all that stuff about his “allotted time,” the “rising mists,” waking from his “life-dream,” and what-have you. It was way too apropos to his current situation. Someone plainly had left that book there for him.

  That didn’t mean he was safe or had nothing to worry about. But it did suggest that whoever lived there wasn’t just some rando who would call the police on him.

  Was it the girl in the station wagon? Who was she? He didn’t know her name or even her face—of that, he felt sure—so what was that nagging feeling when he saw her?

  “Proto? Hey, what’s up,” came a voice behind him.

  Blinking stupidly, baffled by this interruption, he turned around and faced the speaker.

  It was Yemos. He looked every bit as nineteen as Proto, from the mussed-up abundance of his dark hair to the ribby tightness of his Talk Talk T-shirt.

  “What’s up,” he repeated, holding out a fist.

  Oh no . . . thought Proto with a sinking heart.

  “I’d suggest avoiding conversations, especially with those you know. If your friends start recounting conversations with Sleepwalker Proto to Wakey-Wake Proto, things tend to go south quickly. I’ve foreseen it, believe you me!” Flua-Sahng had warned him.

  He cursed himself for forgetting to put on his mask. This was exactly why he’d brought it! He could’ve avoided this! Just walk on by, looking like a squid, and Yemos wouldn’t have glanced twice.

  . . . well, he might’ve glanced twice, but at least he wouldn’t know it was Proto.

  Ugh. Proto hadn’t felt so grim about his failure to wear a mask since he was flying to a vacation in 2021, and some sniffly, coughing guy sat next to him.

  “You gonna leave me hanging?” frowned Yemos, eying his extended fist.

  Welp, might as well try not to weird out Yemos any more than he already had. As a wise man once said, “You might as well believe you’re not screwed, because if you are, you’re screwed either way!”

  “Yemos!” greeted Proto, finally returning the fistbump. “Been too long.”

  Yemos’ brow rose. “Indeed. About . . . ten hours? Much too long.”

  Shit. Proto struggled to recall what he’d been doing yesterday—which, from his perspective, had been over a decade ago.

  Fortunately, strong emotions have a way of ingraining memories. And the day he’d broken up with Karen Black was very well-ingrained indeed—as was that evening, when he’d hung out with Yemos and drunk away his sorrows till midnight.

  “Too long!” repeated Proto agreeably. Just play it out. “How’s life with neither school nor a job?”

  “Too short!” lamented Yemos. “Nah. I’ve convinced myself Atlean University will be awesome. And not just longer essays and harder math problems.”

  “You forgot more expensive football tickets,” offered Proto.

  “That’s the spirit,” affirmed Yemos. “Anyway, I’ve slept in every day this month, eaten Chinese buffet seventeen times, and gone to three concerts this week and four last week. Even more concerts than Kar—um, She-Who-Shall-Remain-Nameless.”

  Proto started to tilt his head in confusion, then ahhed inwardly. Right, since I broke up with Karen Black yesterday. “Who’s that? She sounds boring. Anyway, speaking of more exciting things, have you decided on your class schedule?”

  “That’s the spirit,” repeated Yemos, chortling quietly. “Well, you don’t seem too brokenhearted. Just, um, broken-legged?”

  Again, it took Proto a moment to realize what Yemos was referring to.

  The cane. Shit.

  “Yeah. I, um”—he thought quickly—“might’ve maybe kicked a wall last night. For reasons that shall remain nameless.”

  Yemos laughed out loud. “I’m sorry.” He cleared his throat. “And then you, uh, stopped at the cane store this morning?”

  “My grandpa’s house,” Proto made up.

  “Ah, same difference,” waved Yemos. “So that’s why it looks like a prop from a Winston Churchill documentary.”

  Glancing down, Proto had to resist cringing—the cane was mostly obscured by mists now, some wisps of which swirling by his breast.

  “Elegance is timeless!” he retorted, doing his best Wentsworth impression.

  Yemos smiled. “Speaking of timeless things that never get old, Euchre and Smash tonight?”

  Proto’s natural reply at age nineteen would’ve been, “We ordering pizza or wings?”

  The problem was, he had no idea if he’d be at Yemos’ house tonight. Wakey-Wake Proto wouldn’t even remember this conversation.

  “Have to check on something,” he instead replied. “I’ll WhatsApp you later.”

  “ . . . you’ll what me?” frowned Yemos.

  Oh. Shit. “Text you. That’s what I said, right?”

  Yemos eyed him, then patted his shoulder. “You should take a nap. Looking a little tired there.”

  “I think I will,” affirmed Proto. “Right now, in fact.”

  Yep, any minute now! He eyed the rising mists with alarm. Like it or not!

  “Ah, morning naps,” nodded Yemos approvingly. “Life at nineteen!” He swept his arms toward the bright world all around them—which, from Proto’s perspective, was half-hidden by whitish-grey cloudiness. “It goes so quickly.”

  “Too quickly,” agreed Proto, trying not to wince at Yemos’ second remark in minutes about life being short. “Anyway, I’m off. Later!” He hobbled off and waved. He couldn’t even see his hand through the mist.

  “Let me know about Euchre!” Yemos looked both bemused and wryly amused.

  Yeah, Proto supposed his behavior had been a bit odd. He also was zombie-walking with a cane.

  “Will do.” And off he went, his duffel bag bouncing on his back as he caned along.

  Why the Hell did I bring this duffel bag anyway? He struggled to hurry. Next time, mask on, duffel bag off!

  Proto raced sluggishly along the sidewalk, relying ever more on his cane, feeling like the worst Paralympian ever. White wisps tickled at his chin.

  Somehow, though, he was still conscious and still moving as his apartment came in view. He hobbled relievedly toward the door.

  He was just a few feet away when, abruptly, he found himself tripping over something—a cardboard box, which had been hidden by the mists.

  He stumbled forward. One of his arms banged forcefully into the doorframe, almost knocking the cane-sword from his hand. Distantly, he noticed that the pain felt duller than it should have from such a bruising impact.

  His other hand scrabbled for purchase on the door. He managed to stop himself from falling to the floor—but not enough to keep his head from descending below the mists.

  A giddy daze swept over him, even though he was holding his breath. His world whirled round him. He felt like falling dizzily to his hands and knees.

  Instead, he forced himself to his tiptoes above the mist, struggling to stay conscious as black spots splotched across his vision. He grasped at the half-hidden door until he found the knob, walked inside, slammed the door, and zombie-dashed into his bedroom.

  The mists were over his mouth now. He was on the verge of passing out.

  He was about to heave himself into the bed and do so when he realized—the cane-sword! He had only seconds. His vision was going dark.

  Not knowing what else to do, he threw the cane-sword under his bed, then dove atop his mist-swathed covers.

  Instantly, the mists that filled the world transpired his mind, engulfing all things inward and outward. He found himself tumbling headlong through their cloudy vagueness, hurtling toward something faraway and bright.

  In his prospect, it grew from a flickering whiteness to a flaring red—like a smoldering bonfire, luring him first with light, then warmth, then sleepiness—till, finally, collapsing beside it, he passed out and woke up.