Page 20 of Dreamscape Therapies

“Only a little.” Jay bats his eyelashes.

“That is not reassuring.”

“It won't knock you out unless you actually try to sleep.”

“It just… encourages the process.” He gives me an innocent smile.

Honestly, I'm so exhausted he could tell me the tea contained ground-up moonbeams and I'd probably drink another cup. With a dramatic sigh, I finish the rest, then flop backward onto the couch.

“Oh, wow.” I yawn. “That kicked in fast.”

“Told you.”

“I was already exhausted, Jay.” Another yawn catches me. “You didn't have to spike my tea like some kind of potion master.”

His cheeks turn pink at the sound of his first name.

I notice, but I'm too tired to care. My eyes drift shut as the fire crackles softly and the rain machine murmurs in the background.

Jay laughs quietly, the sound warm and comforting.

The last thing I register before sleep pulls me under is the sound of his slow, steady breathing.

Then everything disappears.

Chapter Nine

I'm standing in the cereal aisle of a grocery store the size of a football stadium, staring at fifty-two brands of the same damn cereal, when I notice the shelves are crocheted.

What the hell.

The cans of soup are wearing tiny yarn sweaters. The freezer doors are knitted shut. Someone cross-stitched "rollback prices" onto the tags.

This is already weird, but it's not nightmare weird yet. Just... dream weird.

"Cleanup on aisle six. Again." The loudspeaker crackles overhead.

A spider the size of a golden retriever rolls past on roller skates. It's carrying a clipboard in two of its legs and a smoothie in another. It pauses beside a pyramid of canned peaches and sighs heavily.

"We are severely understaffed," it mutters before skating away.

Somehow, the spider isn't the weirdest thing.

No. That would be the thin strands of yarn stretching across the ceiling. Thousands of them. Red, blue, yellow, soft cream-colored wool dangling low enough to brush my hair. Tiny spiders crawl along the threads carrying random objects. Keys. Bananas. Socks. One Costco-sized container of lube.

I don't want to know.

The lights flicker.

My stomach drops.

For a moment, far down the aisle near the frozen vegetables, I see a tall shadow standing perfectly still. Watching me.

It vanishes the second I try to look directly at it.

No one else notices.

A woman nearby is arguing with a giant tarantula over expired coupons like this is completely normal.