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smiled and politely excused myself from the living room. As I walk up the stairs, I could hear a whisper and barely make out my mom saying “…don’t think you should be asking her those types of questions.”
    As I entered my room and shut the door quietly, I wondered what that was supposed to mean. Why couldn’t he ask me those types of questions? What alarmed me even more was Mom’s nervousness. I had never heard of a Dr. Mark Roberson before; Mom never mentioned him. And why would he ask me if I have been feeling well? I guess it was a doctor thing. Mom used to be a doctor. A surgeon. She always asked me how I feeling. I guess it was in their nature to make sure people were not feeling ill.
    My stomach made a loud rumble, but I really did not want to go back downstairs into the awkwardness. Maybe my mom liked Mark and wanted some time alone with him. That would be interesting. Mom had only been on a hand full of dates…that I knew of. She said she would rather spend her time with me and that it was too late in her life to be dating. Maybe she reconsidered.
    I threw myself on my bed and stared at the ceiling. Thoughts of tomorrow’s study date circled my mind and before I knew it, my eyes grew heavier.
    It was suddenly late at night, and I was walking slowly down an empty field, with only the moonlight guiding my way. There was heavy fog low at my feet, obstructing my view of the ground. I felt nervous, scared, not sure of what I was doing. I walked and walked as the fog grew heavier and heavier at my feet. I felt dizzy and hungry. So, so hungry. I couldn’t smell anything. My vision was blurred. But I could barely hear a crunching sound as my foot stepped forward. I stopped and bent to see what I had stepped on, but still couldn’t make out anything. I touched the ground, only to feel the soft soil. I flailed my arms around, pushing the fog to either side of me. I pushed and pushed, until suddenly, there was something. I bent down closer to get a better view, only to see what looked like a finger pointing straight up. I stared for a moment, not understanding why this finger was protruding out of the soggy mud. I became curious and wanted to touch it. As I slowly brought my fingertips to it, it twitched. Once, twice, three times. I reached down closer, still curious. I didn’t stand up, I didn’t run away. The finger began to move, grabbing on to the edge. Another finger emerged. Then another, and another, until five fingers were in the air. I was mesmerized, frozen in time. The hand began to move again, clawing into the soil now, pulling Earth further and further down. A wrist emerged, then an arm. The skin was pale and smelled of rot, with greenish, black blisters and bruises. I could see a balding head beginning to crown through the surface. The few strands of hair on the blistering scalp were thin, long, and colorless. As the head slowly made its out, and a face was becoming visible, I began to realize that it looked familiar. She looked familiar. There were heavy bags under her eyes, tiny freckles scattered on her nose and cheeks, and pale, full lips. It was me.
    My eyes sprung open as I lay still in my bed. I stared at the ceiling, wondering why I was not a crying mess from the terrible vision of myself I had just witnessed in my sleep. When I tried to turn my head to get a glimpse of the time on my nightstand, I winced at the achiness radiating from my neck to my toes. I struggled to lift myself up into a sitting position, realizing at the same time that the sheets were wet. My forehead and whole body was covered in sweat. I reached over to flick the lamp on. The light burned my retinas and I flicked it back off quickly. I glanced over at the clock, squinting and struggling to read the time. I could barely see. It was blurry, but after focusing for a moment, the clock read 3:00 a.m.
    I slowly maneuvered myself out of the bed, trying desperately not to move too fast. I couldn’t if I wanted to. I stumbled