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exerted was surprising and impressive; however, and in spite of a lack of leverage, Steve’s greater strength impelled the bottle toward the dresser. Bryan hissed. His eyes crossed inward, one twitching violently.
    Steve laughed and let go.
    Bryan stumble back, red faced and out of breath. “You… look… disappointed.” He set the bottle down and rubbed his eyes. “May have popped… some capillaries on that one.”
    “Dude, are you alright?”
    “I’m getting there,” Bryan said. “I’ll make you a deal. We don't take any more of this stuff, but we don't throw it out either. You keep it safe and sound for the summer and this fall I'll take a sample to the University and have a professor run some tests on it.”
    Steve's eyes rolled up and to the left.
    “What do you say? I have to know what this stuff is. Wouldn't you like to know if we ingested Methel-ethel-death?”
    “I think I would.” He liked the reassuring smile that crossed his friend’s face. “It’s a deal. You analyze the hell out of it this fall. I'm going to bed.” Steve sat on the bed and bent over to untie his shoes.
    “Good idea.” Bryan drug his feet heading to the guest bedroom that for the last four years was his bedroom away from home.
    Steve turned off the light, got into bed and looked at the gouge left in the ceiling by Bryan’s sword wielding. Uncle George would never see the damage. The man hadn’t climbed the stairs in months and most likely, would never come up to the second floor—ever. All thoughts of getting in trouble vanished. He would be alone soon, in a year maybe two. Aunts, uncles, mothers and fathers, all will be gone and he will be alone.
    Of course, he’d always have friends. Bryan would be there for him. Even the next seven years while his friend was away at school, they would email often. Steve relaxed. He was relieved to find nothing unusual about the sleepiness that filled his head. He smiled as his consciousness slipped away, his last thoughts a vision of Nora in low-cut jeans.
     
    *          *          *
     
    Steve inspected the well-set dinner table. The place settings looked familiar, but the chairs did not. Ornate carvings of flowers and vines covered the chairs that were made of dark wood. He pulled one out from the table expecting to see chiseled lions feet, but instead found metal legs identical to the chairs in his own kitchen. In the center of the table sat a cooked ham and turkey, prepared exactly like one of Aunt Pat’s holiday feasts. A closer examination of the plates turned up the rose pattern that bordered their family’s good dishes, with the exception of Chinese symbols mixed within the green leaves and red pedals. Steve looked to the left, Aunt Pat was holding out a bowl of stuffing.
    He studied the lines in her face, the gray color of her hair, and then looked deep into her eyes. For the moment, a pain deep within him vanished.
    “Are you alive or dead in this dream?” he asked.
    Pat didn't answer. She smiled warmly, handed him the bowl of brown stuffing, and disappeared. He turned, placed the bowl on the table, and noticed something odd. The stuffing’s color shifted to dark green. That didn't seem right. He bent over to examine the food; the stuffing had transformed into spinach. A ball of spinach leapt out, landed on his wrist and burrowed into his flesh. He jumped back, his wrist aching, and grabbed the back of his forearm. No visible entry wound existed, but a lump the size of a golf ball, just under the skin’s surface, moved up his arm. His flesh seared. Skin and veins stretched to accommodate the protuberance.
    No inner voice spoke the words, the knowledge was divined him as if God had whispered it. If he could withstand the pain long enough for the mass to work its way up to his biceps, he would become successful. The lump moved painfully upward and his dream vision blurred.
    Too much pain, he thought, too much for just the spinach. The awareness came