"Sometimes the dreams are sharp and clear, but sometimes it's as though the subject doesn't want to be seen. That night was very bright in my head. I felt like I was there, at least at the beginning. I was running up a winding spiral staircase, up and up and up like I was climbing a mountain. I didn't feel like I'd ever get to the top, or maybe there wasn't a top. Your father, he was running along beside me in the dream, and we were being chased. It was a dark man, covered in scars and dirt and blood, his sweat making little rivulets in the dirt on his face, his hair caked and matted. He had a sword, a heavy one, and it was as filthy as he was. There were other people with him, and as I was running up the stairs, I was so afraid, and the fear, it made me clumsy. I fell, and your father stopped to help me up, tried to get me moving again. But when he stopped, the caught up with us and the dirty man plunged the sword into his back. I screamed in my dream, and it woke me up. But like I said, I couldn't get to a phone to warn your father. Not that he would have believed me if I had managed it. No one's ever really believed my dreams."
She had been talking to her lap. Now she opened her water bottle and took another sip, not quite daring to make eye contact with him yet. She wished she had something to give him, but she didn't think her dreams would be terribly helpful. Still, she knew what it was like to lose a parent. She hoped he'd found more comfort than she had.