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“For verisimilitude,” I say. “Try to make the cut look as close to the one in the picture as possible.”
“What if I’m off?”
Then all of this might be for nothing. Something I don’t tell Detective Palmer. She’s uncertain enough as it is.
“Let’s go over it one more time,” I say. “You wait—”
“Until you’re inside the tent,” Detective Palmer says with a nod. “And I’m not allowed to tell you when I’m going to do it. I just—”
“Slice.” I’ve dropped to my hands and knees in front of the tent, preparing to enter, when I’m struck by an idea. “It might be better to wait until I’m asleep.”
Detective Palmer waves the knife, confused. “You want to sleep through all this?”
The irony isn’t lost on this insomniac. But it strikes me as the best course of action. To summon memories of the night Billy was taken, I need to replicate it as much as possible. And since I was asleep whenthe event that would later become The Dream occurred, it stands to reason that I should sleep now.
“How will I know you’re asleep?”
That beats the hell out of me.
“You’ll need to wing it,” I say. “Listen to my breathing. That should be a good indicator.”
“I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, but I’ve got some confiscated Ambien in my purse,” Detective Palmer says, deadly serious. “Pop one, wash it down with some whiskey, and you’ll be out like a light. It usually does the trick for me.”
While I’m tempted—and increasingly intrigued by her personal life—I decline the offer. The goal here is to wake up as the tent is being sliced open, not drop into a coma.
“All ready?” I ask.
The detective gives me a look. “Can anyone truly be ready for something like this, Ethan?”
The answer is no, especially with so much uncertainty. I have no idea if I’ll remember anything when she slashes the tent. I don’t even know if I’ll be able to fall asleep. But I have to at least try. Tonight, the thirtieth anniversary of when Billy was taken, seems the most likely time for my memory to produce something tangible.
“Well, I’m going in,” I announce before crawling into the tent and zipping it shut behind me. I then move to the sleeping bag on the left, the same side I was on when Billy was taken. I wriggle into it and tap the side of the tent. A signal for Detective Palmer to recite the words I instructed her to say once I was ready to go.
She does, reluctantly. “Hakuna matata, dude.”
I slide deeper into the sleeping bag and shut off the lantern, plunging the tent into darkness. I lie still for a moment, basking in the deep blackness. There’s a heaviness to it, thick and slightly oppressive. That also describes the air inside the tent, which has quickly increased inwarmth thanks to the closed tent flaps. Due to the darkness, the heat, and the sounds of summertime in July just outside the tent, familiarity begins to creep in. It may not be an exact reenactment, but itfeelslike that night.
Now it’s time to sleep.
I close my eyes and try to rid my mind of all thoughts. I focus instead on everything I remember sensing that night. The tickle of sweat on the back of my neck. The cricket closest to the tent, sounding extra loud. The smell—a sickly sweet combination of earth and stale air and two boys after a long summer day.
Shockingly, it seems to be working. I find myself drifting closer to sleep as, one by one, my surroundings seem to fall away. First the tent walls, followed quickly by the sleeping bag around me and the ground beneath me. My pillow is the last thing to slip into nothingness, and when it does, I feel like a man floating in space.
Then I hear it.
Scriiiiiiiitch.
My eyes snap open, adjusting to a darkness different from what was there when I closed them. It’s lighter. A gray haze. Like I’m trapped inside a black-and-white movie.
Only it’s not a movie.
It’s The Dream.
And I’m not reenacting it.
I’minsideit.
My surroundings grow clearer as my eyes adjust to the darkness. I’m still inside the tent, only it’s not the one currently in my backyard. This is my old tent. The one the police took when I was ten.