“Oh, totally. But . . . I don’t know. This felt different. Like . . .” Janie searches her memories, thinking back through the dozens of dreams she’d experienced in her life. “Like in most people’s dreams, I’m just there, and they accept that, and they talk to me like I’m a prop. But they don’t really connect—they look at me but they don’t really see me.”

Cabel scratches the scruff on his cheek and absentmindedly runs his fingers through his hair. “I don’t get the difference.”

Janie sighs. “I guess I don’t either. It just felt different.”

“Like the first day I saw you at the bus stop and you were the only one who would look at me, and our eyes sort of connected?” Cabel’s teasing, sort of. But not really.

“Maybe. But more like when Miss Stubin looked at me when I was in her dream back in the nursing home and asked me a question. Sort of a recognition thing. Like, somehow she just knew I was a dream catcher too.”

Cabel glances at Janie and then back at the road. His forehead crinkles and he tilts his head quizzically. “Wait,” he says. “Wait a minute.” He presses down on the brake and turns to look at Janie again. “Serious?”

Janie looks at Cabel and nods. She’s been wondering it.

“Janie. Do you have any reason at all to think this dream thing could be hereditary?” The car slows and comes to a stop in the middle of the country road.

“I don’t know,” Janie says. She glances over her shoulder nervously. “Cabe, what are you doing?”

“Turning around,” he says. He backs into a three-point turn and hits the gas. “This is important stuff. He might have some information on this little curse of yours. And we might not have another chance.”

12:03 p.m.

Cabel stands at the front door of Henry’s house and pulls his driver’s license from his wallet. He works it into the crack of the door next to the handle and begins to move it side to side. He presses his lips together as he works, trying to get to the bolt to move aside so they can break in.

Janie watches him for a moment. Then she reaches out and grabs the door handle. Turns it. The door opens.

Cabel straightens up. “Well. Who doesn’t lock their doors these days?”

“Somebody whose brain is exploding, maybe? Somebody who lives out in the middle of nowhere and has nothing good to steal? Somebody who’s half-crazy? Maybe he told the paramedics not to lock it because he didn’t have his keys.” Janie steps into the little house, making room for Cabel to follow. “See?” she says, pointing to a key rack on the wall with one set of keys hanging from it.

It’s stuffy inside. Kitchen, living area, and bed are all in the main room. A doorway in the back corner appears to lead to a bathroom. There’s a radio on a bookshelf and a small TV on the kitchen counter. Hot air plunges into the room through an open, screened window at the back of the house. A thin yellow curtain flutters. Below the window is a table where an old computer sits. It appears from the coffee mug and bowl that the table serves as both an eating place and as a desk. Under the table is a three-drawer unit that looks like it once belonged to a real desk. A few papers rest on the floor as if they’d been carried there by the breeze.

Flattened cardboard boxes lean against the wall near the back door. The bed is disheveled. A nearly empty glass of water stands on a makeshift bedside table made from a cardboard box.

“Well,” Janie says. “There’s goes my dream of a magical surprise inheritance. Dude’s poorer than us.”

“That’s not an easy feat,” Cabel says, taking it all in. He walks over to the desk. “Unless maybe he owns this property—it could be valuable.” Cabel shuffles through a few bills on the desk. “Or . . . not. Here’s a canceled check that says ‘rent’ in the memo line.”

“Damn.” Janie reluctantly joins Cabel. “This feels weird, Cabe. We shouldn’t be doing this.”

“You’ll never find out anything if you wait until after he’s dead—the state will take over and the landlord’s going to want a tenant who can actually pay the bills. They’ll clean this place out, sell what they can to pay the hospital, and that’s that.”

“You sure know a lot of random shit.” Janie looks around.

“Random, useful shit.”

“I suppose.” She wanders around the little house. On top of the TV there are a variety of over-the-counter pain relievers. The refrigerator is half-stocked. A quart of milk, half a loaf of pumpernickel bread, a container of bologna. One shelf alone is filled with string beans, corn on the cob, tomatoes, and raspberries. Janie glances out the window to the backyard and sees a small garden and, off to the side, wild-looking bushes dotted red.

The cupboards are mostly bare, except for a few nonmatching dishes and glasses. There’s a light layer of dust all around, but it’s not a dirty house. In the living area, there’s an old beat up La-Z-Boy recliner, an end table with a wooden lamp on it, and a large, makeshift shelving unit filled with boxes. Near it is a small bookcase. Janie pictures Henry sitting here in the evening, in the recliner, reading or watching TV in this almost-cozy house. She wonders what sort of life it was.

She walks over to the bookcase and sees worn copies of Shakespeare, Dickens. Kerouac and Hemingway and Steinbeck, too. Some books with odd lettering that looks like Hebrew. Science textbooks. Janie removes one and looks inside. Sees what must be her father’s handwriting below a list of names that had been crossed out.