Glory’s dream journal was not a book. It was not a stack of pages or an album of pictures. It was an unfathomable diorama, a pop-up jigsaw puzzle of storyboards and film reels, a textured landscape of living textiles and the tentacled offspring of machine-made seeds. It looked like a pile of art scraps when it lay on her special bedside table; a deconstructed muppet head, still twitching with bad jokes and good magic. To an ignorant bystander, it would seem completely unremarkable in its inert form, except for one thing: it glowed. Actually glowed. When the lights went out at night, no matter what phase the moon was in, a silvery light cast its gentle spectrum off the deranged bundle so its shape was the only vision in the room. In the day, despite the visual offset of daylight, the feeling of the glow remained present enough to draw the eye.

This is how Dennis came to endanger the life of his curious cat.

He had caught sight of it many times before, simply by grace of its invisible glow and irregular shape. Dennis was always sincerely interested in his daughter’s creative exploits, and this one seemed a labyrinth of continual development. He had no interest in rushing her to share; he knew she had the timing and impulse of a bear cub tempered with the patience and wisdom of a ninety-year-old whittler. She was learning to create with care and offer with responsibility. He had no doubt that she would change the world, when she was ready. He had gotten used to waiting. He was good at waiting. Almost always.

In the warm sunshine of a wintry afternoon, in the small handful of “downtime” hours he was afforded per week, Dennis was bringing a stack of laundry to Glory’s bed when he was struck by a staring spell. He stared at that dream pile for several minutes, the folded clothes heavy in his hands, socks dangling off his forearms. Finally, he shook off the blankness of reverie and put the laundry down. With no thought nor reason, he walked over to the thing and carefully flipped open to a “page” in the middle.

There was a shape, a purple shape, and a swirl of pink dust in its cracks. Inside the shape were thousands—really, thousands—of delicate little black threads, waving every which way, curling in thick clumps toward the edges, dispersing in flimsy couplets toward the center. Contained in unimaginable depth were the long, thin lines of two figures in the middle, touching just barely at the waist, limbs and heads stretching out beyond the page in tapering pipecleaner twists. There were only eight words on the page, and it was hard to tell where they were written: “What happened to you happened to me.”

There was a slam at the front door. The man froze on the spot. Glory’s home, said his Observer. Holy Mother of God!!! said his Reactor. Frantic clomps up the steps. No time passed. There she was.

Glory was mad, spitting mad. She didn’t even know why, but didn’t need to. She came roaring through the door, clawing the thing from his hands before she even set foot in the room. He dropped it on the bed, guilty as a kid caught shoplifting.

“I’m sorry, MG,” he stammered sincerely. “I didn’t—”

“You can’t do this! Get out of here! What if you’ve scared them?! How could you? Don’t you know what will HAPPEN if you mess this up?!” she shrieked. “Get out of here! Out! Out! Out!”

She had never before spoken this way to the man she called father. She was fuming, eyes rolling, smoke spilling out her pores. He blinked at her, sadder than he’d ever looked.

“Glory,” he said quietly, “please forgive your father.”

She shot him a look he had never seen on the face of a human. “I’m. Trying.”

He couldn’t be sure, because at that moment he was sure of nothing, including the sanity of the young lady before him, but he had a feeling in his gut that she wasn’t talking about him.

Suddenly wide-eyed with paranoia, terrified that his mind was not a private affair but the clear lens of a projector shooting his truth every which way, Dennis backed out of the room.

Visibly calming, claiming her space like a hunting tiger, she paced after him. “Do you have any idea how important this is to me?”

He nodded. He didn’t. “I’m sorry,” he frowned.

She grew several years older to say, “I know. I have to be alone now.” Then she closed the door.

 

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