That night, Lance lay curled under his thin blanket, the window cracked open to the warm Michigan air. The soft hiss of crickets drifted in, mixing with the distant hum of trucks on US-10.
His Alupent inhaler rested on the nightstand, white against the dark wood, ready if the tightness came.
Sometime past midnight, sleep pulled him under — heavy and thick. And then, in the dark, came the light.
It wasn’t the moon. It was too white, too sharp. It filled the room, pouring over notebooks and radios and baseball cards.
Hands — or something like hands — touched his shoulders, lifted him weightless. He tried to speak but his voice stayed stuck in his chest. He tried to breathe but the air felt wrong — sweet and cold, like cinnamon and metal.
Shapes moved above him. Soft voices, not English, not anything he knew. He felt warmth behind his ear, a sting like a whisper. Then he was drifting — through the window, into the night sky, the house falling away like a toy below him.
He woke before dawn tangled in sweaty sheets, chest tight, breath shallow. His Alupent was still there on the table. He reached for it, the medicine sharp and bitter on his tongue.
A floorboard creaked in the hall. Bobby’s sleepy voice drifted through the door. “You up, Lance?”
Lance stared at the ceiling. Maybe it was just a dream.
But he could still taste cinnamon.
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