Page 113 of The Bodyguard

“Can’t,” Jack shrugged. “Won’t.”

“Seems a little harsh.”

“I just wake up every day thinking about how a person—a really great person, a much better person than me—isn’t here, and I am. The only way to make my existence bearable is to try to do something every day that justifies my life.”

“What do you do?”

“Oh, you know, start foundations. Fund scholarships. Make celebrity appearances at children’s hospitals. Help old ladies with their groceries. Donate blood.”

Wow. Some lucky person got The Destroyer’s blood and didn’t even know it.

“Big things,” Jack went on, “and little things, too. Just—something. One good thing every day.”

“That’s a lot of repentance.”

Jack nodded. “You’d think the nightmare would have faded by now, but it’s still going strong.”

“Okay,” I said. “What if the nightmare isn’t a punishment? What if it’s a chance?”

Jack met my eyes. “A chance to do what?”

“See your brother again.”

“Pretty slim, as chances go. Since he’s dead.”

I kept going. “I have an idea, but you’ll probably hate it.”

“That sounds like a challenge.”

“You’ve heard of lucid dreaming, right? Where you’re aware that you’re dreaming in the dream?”

“Sort of.”

“What if you taught yourself how to do that and then… talked to Drew?”

“Just taught myself to dream on purpose?”

“I mean, yeah.”

“And then had a conversation with my dead brother?”

I nodded.

“How? When? As the car is filling with water?”

“What if you just… steered the dream in a different direction?”

“That’s not how dreams work. They’re not screenplays.”

“But you are technically writing them. We all are.”

“It’s a terrible idea. And even if it worked, it wouldn’t be the real Drew.”

“But maybe talking to Drew could be a way of talking to yourself.”

Jack looked at me for a minute. “You’re right. I hate it.”

“Fine,” I said, moving to crawl away. “Hate it. Whatever.”

But as I shifted, he caught me and yanked me back, pulling me against his chest. It was solid, and warm, and smelled as ever like cinnamon. “Stay.”

My head landed on the pillow beside him. “I’m tired.”

“Two minutes.”

“Sixty seconds,” I said. “Take it or leave it.”

“Sold,” Jack said.

“Sixty seconds it is,” I said. “Just don’t let me fall asleep.”