He nods, chewing.

“Up until yesterday, I’ve seen you as the monster-man-thing”—she cringes, not sure what to name it—“that monster in the house—the kitchen. With the chair. That one was purely coincidental—I didn’t even know it was you, dreaming it. Not until later. It was sort of a drive-by thing.”

He closes his eyes, cringes, and sets his pizza down on the plate.

“That was you,” he says slowly. “I knew I’d seen your car before. I thought you were…someone else.” He pauses, lost in thought. “The yard—oh, God—your so-called superstition. Damn. So—” He sits up, hands paused in midair, eyes closed. Thinking. Processing.

And then he turns and stares at her. “You could have totally crashed.”

“I didn’t think anybody saw me.”

“The headlights—your headlights. That’s what woke me up. They were shining in my window…. Jesus Christ, Janie.”

“Your bedroom window must have been open. Otherwise, it wouldn’t have happened. I think. I had no idea it was your house.”

He sits back, shaking his head slightly as he puts the pieces together. “Okay,” he says. “Get to the good part before I completely lose my appetite.”

“Behind the shed. You walk up to me. Touch my face. Kiss me. I kiss you back.”

He’s silent.

“That’s it,” she says.

He regards her carefully. “That’s it?”

“Yes. I swear. I mean, it was a good kiss, though.”

He nods, lost in thought. “Damn bell always rings then, doesn’t it.”

She smiles. “Yeah.” She pauses, wondering if she should mention the part where he asks her to help him, but he’s on to the next thing.

“So when I found you on the desk in the library a few weeks ago, and it took you a while to sit up…what was that? You weren’t asleep, were you.”

“No.”

“That was a bad one?”

“Yeah. Real bad.”

He puts his head in his hands and takes off his glasses. He rubs his eyes. “Jesus,” he says. “I remember that one.” He keeps his head down, and Janie waits. “So that’s why you said…when I asked you if you had a bad dream,” he murmurs.

“I…I wanted to know if you knew I was there, watching. Even when people talk to me in their dreams, no one seems to remember that part. No one ever mentions it, anyway.”

“I don’t recall ever seeing you there, or talking to you…except when I’m actually dreaming about you,” he muses. “Janie,” he says abruptly. “What if I don’t want you to see it?”

Janie grabs a slice of pizza. “I’m working hard, trying to bust my way out of them—the dreams. I don’t want to be a voyeur—seriously, I can’t help it. It’s almost impossible. So far, anyway. But I’m making a little progress. Slowly.” She pauses. “If you don’t want me to see, I guess, don’t sleep in the same room as me.”

He looks up at her with a sly smile. “But I’m known for sleeping in school. It’s my shtick.”

“You can change your schedule. Or I can change mine. I’ll do whatever you want.” She looks at the uneaten pizza and sets her plate down. She is miserable.

“Whatever I want,” he says.

“Yes.”

“I’m afraid you haven’t been privy to that dream yet.”

She looks at him. He’s looking at her, and she grows warm. “Maybe I’d rather experience that firsthand,”

she says lightly.

“Mmmm.” He takes a sip of his soda. “But before this goes offtrack…What the hell is wrong with you?”

She’s silent. Not looking at him.

“And,” he says, “Jesus. It just occurred to me why you freaked when I pretended I wasn’t me. You must be a freaking mess, Hannagan.” He tugs her arm, and she falls back on the couch toward him. He kisses the top of her head. “I can’t begin to tell you how bad I felt about that.”

“It’s cool,” she says. “Sorry about the flagrant foul,” she adds.

“S’all right. I was wearing a cup.” He twirls a strand of her hair with his finger. “So, when do you sleep, like, normally?”

Janie smiles ruefully. “Normally, I sleep fine, if I’m alone in a room. When I was thirteen, I finally asked my mother if she would do me the favor of passing out in her bedroom rather than in here. There’s something about a closed door that blocks it.” She pauses.

“But what happens, exactly?”

She closes her eyes. “My vision goes first. I can’t see around me. I’m trapped. If it’s a bad dream, a nightmare, I guess I start to shake and my fingers go numb first, then my feet, and the worse the nightmare is, the more paralyzed I become.”

He looks at her. “Janie,” he says softly.

“Yes.”

He strokes her hair. “I thought you were dying. You shake, you spasm, your eyes roll back in your head. I was ready to steal the nearest cell phone, stick a wallet in your mouth, and call 911.”

Janie is silent for a long time. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”

“You’re lying.”

She looks at him. “Yes,” she says. “I suppose I am.”

“Who else knows? Your mother?”