18
That night, I dreamed I was blind. Arch, Tom, Marla, Julian—none of them were in the nightmare. But Holly was. She was calling, “Why can’t you see it?”
“See what?” my voiceless scream had called back.
Tom woke me. My yelling hadn’t been so silent after all. I was shivering, drenched with sweat. “It’s all right,” he told me, over and over, as he held me. “You’re okay.”
With Tom’s arms around me, I finally went back to sleep. I told the Holly-in-my-head that if she wanted me to discover something, she should have been clearer.
Her faint reply was, “I couldn’t.”
Well. Clearly.
Very early Monday morning, Tom told me again, patiently, that I absolutely, positively could not make a step—outside the house, outside the car, anywhere—without Boyd physically by my side.
“You’re going to m
