The Running Dream [antikvár]

My life is over. Behind the morphine dreams is the nightmare of reality. A reality I can't face. I cry myself back to sleep, wishing, pleading, praying that I'll wake up from this, but the same nightmare always awaits me. "Shhh," my mother whispers. "It'll be okay." But her eyes are swollen and red, and I know she doesn't believe what she's saying. My father—now that's a different story. He doesn't even try to lie to me. What's the use? He knows what this means. My hopes, my dreams, my life . . . it's over. The only one who seems unfazed is Dr. Wells. "Hello there, Jessica!" he says. I don't know if it's day or night. The second day or the first. "How are you feeling?" 1 just stare at him. What am I supposed to say, Fine? He inspects my chart. "So let's have a look, shall we?" He pulls the covers off my lap, and I find myself face to face with the truth.