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The taller of the nurses, the gargoyle whose dreams I snuck into to check on Mom, says, “Does a mooft shit at the zoo?”

Yuck. Fighting the urge to berate the nurse, I charge ahead to Mom’s room.

Just as I’m about to step into the room, I hear an unwelcome voice that’s too high for all but bat ears.

“Miss Spade. We need to talk.”

I spin around and scowl at the billing administrator—or the Horseshoe Bat, as I’ve mentally dubbed her. “Do you usually patrol this place at night?” I ask, fighting the urge to take out my gun and use it on her.

Her nose goes up. “If you could step into my office—”

“I paid all the outstanding bills. If you didn’t get the payment—”

“There’s a new policy when it comes to long-term patients,” she says nastily. “We need their stay to be prepaid a month in advance.”

“Fine.” I bring up VR and send over a payment. “Check your account now.”

She looks confused. I guess she’d pegged me as broke.

“Will there be anything else?” I snap. “Any other policy you want to make up just for me?”

She blinks. “I—”

“In that case, I’m going to see my mom.”

“The visiting hours are—”

“Do not test me.”

She must not like what she sees on my face because she steps back and says, “The visiting hours are merely a suggestion.”

Yeah. I thought so.

She scurries away, and I finally enter Mom’s room.

Immediately, my chest tightens. Mom looks the same, all ashen and still. Even some of the old equipment, like the feeding tube, is back. I have to get her out, but since she’s not in REM sleep, I’ll have to tackle a subdream first. And if I die there, I’ll become a crazed killer, and she’ll be my first victim. Which is why I need—

Valerian walks into the room with a concerned expression on his face. “What’s going on? Is everything okay with your mom?”

I nod. “The demo went live. I’m going to get her out.”

He looks her over, frowning. “She’s not in REM sleep.”

I take out my gun, make sure it’s still on stun, and toss it to him.

He catches the gun, looking even more confused.

“The password is yitten,” I say.

He looks at the gun, then at me. “What?”

“If I don’t say the word ‘yitten’ when I come out of the trance, stun me and get help.”

Before he can argue, I grab hold of Mom’s delicate wrist and dive in.

Chapter Seventeen

The surface of the black ocean is serene under my feet. Then a shadow blots out a chunk of the fiery skies. It’s a flying creature reminiscent of a turkey vulture, only covered in mucus and brimming with pustules and claws.

A bracelet on my wrist elongates into an eight-foot-long furry spear with a sharp fang-like tip.

The vulture screeches something. An odd intuition tells me it’s doing its best to say something that to normal ears would sound like, “The master hates you!”

The vulture dives.

I thrust my spear out.

A claw pierces my shoulder, causing searing pain. I instantly feel faint, but I fight it.

If I pass out, I’ll bleed to death.

At least the creature has paid dearly for its bold attack. In the process of getting to me, it shish-kebabbed itself on the spear.

Another wave of dizziness crashes into me. With my remaining strength, I yank the spear out and stab where I hope the thing’s heart is.

A guttural screech, and the disgusting vulture expires.

I’m in my dream palace, in agony. Exiting my body, I heal it and go right back in.

Ah, that’s better.

Pom pops up next to me, his fur pitch black. “That was too close. You almost died.”

“But I didn’t. And now I’m here, with enough power to save Mom. Hopefully.”

The tips of his ears turn orange. “Can I come see?”

“Sure.” I teleport us over to the tower of sleepers.

Lying peacefully in her nook, Mom doesn’t have all the tubes and therefore isn’t as painful to look at.

Pom perches on my shoulder.

I make us invisible and go in.

Mom dips a baby version of me in a wash basin.

Puck. I know where this is going, and I forgot to warn Pom about it.

Yep. Mom puts the baby’s head under the water and keeps it there.

What is she doing? Pom asks mentally, his feet digging painfully into my shoulder.

I think it’s some weird hell she created for herself in her dreams, I reply. Now be quiet. I need to concentrate.

Pom stops talking, and I ponder the situation.

First things first. Gathering my power, I give Mom a jolt that’s many times stronger than the one I usually use on people who have trouble waking up after therapy.

Mom continues to drown the baby-me, none the wiser.

Puck. What now? Showing myself is a measure of last resort; I don’t want to agitate her if I can help it.

Dr. Cipactli’s earlier idea comes to me, that of using a nightmare as a way to wake her up. His actual plan—using a drug to have Mom spiral into worse and worse nightmares—was too risky, but with me here, I can do a more controlled version of what he had in mind and terminate it if I don’t like where it goes.

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