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In AP Psychology class, we did a unit on the human brain and Mrs. Haverford taught us about dreams. She said that dreams feel as if they are happening for hours, but most last only a few minutes. It’s just that in sleep, time warps and wanders.

I have a recurring nightmare in which Dina Weston has come over and is knocking on the front door, but as much as I try, I can never open it. It doesn’t sound like a nightmare but when I wake from it, with dread hard and solid in my veins, it feels like one.

The doorbell rings. Only in this dream, the door does open. And it’s not Dina standing there—it’s Dad, finger on the bell. “What’s this all about?”

Dream Dad asks in an uncharacteristically blustery tone.

“Just come see,”

the blue-haired girl claiming to be my sister says.

Dad freezes in the entryway. He looks at me and collapses to his knees. “Lord God, name above all names, your power is unlimited and your strength has no end,” he prays.

At this, my mother starts to scream again.

, wake up, I tell myself.

My father stands and walks toward me. This being what I’ve decided is a dream, I’m not sure what he’ll do. Maybe he’ll kill me. Or turn into a dragon. Or fry eggs off the cement patio. Those are things a dream dad would do.

But this father, my father, he stands up, walks to me, and hugs me. I can feel the force of him even if I can’t quite feel him.

Mom continues to scream.

I can’t move. My eyes are closed against his shoulder. I wish I could close my ears against Mom’s screams.

And then, as if Dad heard my thoughts, there’s a crack, and the screaming stops.

I open my eyes. Mom’s cheek is blooming like a rose. Her variety was red, too. It was called Morning Glory. Because her name is Gloria, and she says every sunrise is a miracle.

“You hit Mom!”

the blue-haired girl exclaims.

“I’m sorry, Melissa, but your mother’s in shock. Gloria, you’re in shock,”

Dad says. “Snap out of it. It’s her.”

“It can’t be,” Mom says.

“It is,”

Dad says. “I’d know her anywhere.”

“How?”

Mom asks. “How can it be her?”

Dad holds me at arm’s length, grazing my face with his thumb. The gesture is so loving, it’s hard to reconcile it coming from the same hand that just slapped Mom. But it is his hand. I see the scar on his finger from when it got crushed by a loose cement mixer.

“Miracle,” he says.