Dream to Me


 Contents
 
 Title Page
 Copyright Notice
 Dedication
 Chapter 1
 Chapter 2
 Chapter 3
 Chapter 4
 Chapter 5
 Chapter 6
 Chapter 7
 Chapter 8
 Chapter 9
 Chapter 10
 Chapter 11
 Chapter 12
 Chapter 13
 Chapter 14
 Chapter 15
 Chapter 16
 Chapter 17
 Chapter 18
 Chapter 19
 Chapter 20
 Chapter 21
 Chapter 22
 Chapter 23
 Chapter 24
 Chapter 25
 Chapter 26
 Chapter 27
 Chapter 28
 Chapter 29
 Chapter 30
 Chapter 31
 Chapter 32
 Chapter 33
 Chapter 34
 Chapter 35
 Chapter 36
 Chapter 37
 Chapter 38
 Chapter 39
 Epilogue
 Acknowledgments
 About the Author
 Newsletter Sign-up
 Copyright
 
 
 
 Guide
 
 Cover
 Title Page
 Dedication
 Chapter 1
 Epilogue
 Acknowledgments
 Contents
 Copyright
 
 
 
 Pagebreaks of the print version
 
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 Begin Reading
 Table of Contents
 About the Author
 Copyright Page
 
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 For Dad.
 I wish you could see this, but I’m sure, somewhere out there, you know.
 
 
 
 CHAPTER 1
 
 Daylight is fading to twilight in that slow, creeping way of summer evenings. Here under the shadow of the trees—so many trees, tall as the skyscrapers back home—it’s already night. My sister and I left New York for the fabled land of man buns, flannel, and old-school grunge, and I can see how the look would have come about in a place like this. I wouldn’t be surprised if everyone was a lumberjack in their spare time.
 “Eva, put your feet down.”
 I ignore my sister, the Cranberries lulling me to sleep through my earbuds. Dolores O’Riordan’s haunting voice tells me I’m a dream to her as I drift off against the dark blur of forest sliding past my window.
 My feet remain on the dashboard.
 It’s an uneasy kind of sleep. The kind where I’m still half-aware of my surroundings but the details are shifting. Next to me, Rhonda’s presence is overtaken by a heavier, deeper feel as my dream-addled mind rearranges her form into Dad’s. In a moment, I’ve slipped into the back seat, my tiny feet pressed against the vinyl pocket in front of me. A younger, less somber Rhonda sits beside me again, staring contentedly at a dog-eared paperback. Dad, eyes shining, looks over his shoulder at me. His image is hazy, backlit by the sun.
 How you doin’ back there, Bug? Excited for the beach? His voice isn’t quite right. It’s close, I think, but the precise depth, the way he forms his words … I’ve already lost them.
 We hit a pothole, and my eyes fly open.
 “What?” I ask, a little too loudly, startled into wakefulness.
 “Feet,” Rhonda says. “Down. Help me find the turn.”
 I sit up properly, removing my earbuds. My hand instinctively reaches into my pocket and wraps around the smooth oblong of Dad’s Swiss Army knife. Rubbing my thumb along the bumps of the corkscrew, I take a few breaths, gathering myself, tucking the ever-present ache safely into the background where it belongs.
 “What’s the street again?”
 “Fay Road,” Rhonda says.
 As I watch out my window for street