Death is a displaced name for a linguistic predicament.

– Paul de Man

Kyle bolted upright, wracked in a cold sweat, his lungs chugging like a speeding train. Though his eyes resembled dinner-plates, round and unblinking, he saw nothing. Where was the school? Wasn't there a terrifyingly sinister gibbering demon bearing down on him, mouth gaping to consume and rend his soul? He shivered uncontrollably at his last memory of that scene, cringing slightly as his body attempted to reenact its last gesture. As his wits gradually returned, he thought he heard someone yelling; a flat, fading scream echoed somewhere off in the distance. His shock was redoubled when it occurred to him that the voice was his, and that he screamed still, though merely a low moan accompanying his heavy breathing.

A baby introduced to the world often receives a sensory-jarring though light slap to his buttocks, whereupon he is obligated to emit an ear-piercing wail. Kyle wishes silently to enjoy such luxery, staring at what he recognizes as blackness, as if his world has been consumed and nobody would hear any sound he made, regardless of volume. Forgetting the dream, what happened to the trees? Where are the stars? For that matter, who absconded with a mountain of snow while he slumbered? And perhaps most confusing, Kyle gazing around himself to confirm his newest befuddlement, who turned out the lights? No moon. No stars. No snow. No trees. The sky didn't even reflect the deep navy twilight he'd come to expect, even in the city.

Adriana! Kyle's fading concern over his own mysterious plight sent him into a frenzy. What if that thing got her?! His eyes saw less than darkness, his ears registered a barely perceptible high-pitched whine, the air was stale and unremarkable. If he were in some kind of limbo, what about poor Adriana, who ran off before the world went completely nuts? Loco, man. Bonkers. This place is a funny farm, only it isn't funny. His stomach sank as he valiantly fought his imagination, which busied itself conjuring dozens of horrible scenarios that unanimously declared her death or dismemberment in colorful and revolting splendor. Kyle finally gave in; she had been running through the trees shortly before lightning knocked him unconscious. He wanted to run and tell her parents of her appalling fate, except he didn't know where she lived, and purgatory distinctly lacks a convenient map.

After his eyes adjusted to the lack of illumination, Kyle slapped his forehead in recognition and hung his head in abject shame. His room. While he was busy brewing an ulcer resigning himself to an eternity lost between Heaven and Hell, he remained unmolested in his own bed. Adriana's fate was, likely, equally mundane. Kyle did not doubt he saw a tiny sliver of gloom peeking through the middle of his curtains to the left of his bed. To his right, a much brighter line crossing the floor marked the bedroom door and revealed someone had inadvertently forgotten to turn off the hallway light. He wagered to guess his father was at fault, for nobody else expressed such active unconcern over such trifles. So it's expensive. Live a little, kid. Yeah, definitely good 'ol Frank. In any case, that splinter of light painted the edges of his possessions with a ghostly grey outline, removing any remaining doubt Kyle could justify. Now entombed in his ordinary room, he felt almost dejected.

Was it all just a dream, then? Kyle found that hard to believe, it was all so clear. Nobody recalled dreams with such striking clarity, did they? Jim's birthday party, though surreal, compared favorably in detail, proving Adriana and the lightning real. But he was in bed, his mother was not hovering over him, face distraught at his health after Frank found him hypothermic in the snow. There was only one conclusion he could make: Frank didn't find him in the snow. How could he? When Kyle explored his surroundings the first few days in town, he'd managed to stumble upon the mountain on the second foray, almost directly across the tiny burg, over a shallow gorge and up a rambling, mostly overgrown groove sporting rounded dirt steps. A search party would consume days combing the landscape in vain, and even if he survived such long exposure, he'd be in a hospital. Moreover, his extremities were present and accounted for, not one blackened and useless from frostbite.

Kyle experienced an especially vibrant and memorable dream; what other answer could plausibly account for his current location and relative comfort? His imagination conjured a few candidates, but each was successively more contrived and laughable than the last, less credible than the dream itself. An idea wedged into his mind then: how did he get to Craig's Hill? Concentrating mightily, he couldn't recollect how he'd gotten there. Kyle wondered listlessly if he could bribe himself to manufacture a backstory, preferably one involving an intention of meeting Adriana there to make out. Of course that only made sense if he'd known Adriana would be there, which he didn't. He wistfully resigned himself to idle fantasy, shaking his head with a remorseful sigh. It was alright though, since there was still yet time to attempt such a night vision. Kyle's wind-up alarm clock proclaimed 3:37, or oh-dark-thirty as Frank would cheerfully quip, leaving ample opportunity to catch some Z's. His nightmare had already faded to a dim musing of something vaguely upsetting, and he didn't exactly yearn to amble around school like a rudely awoken mummy, so his choices were limited; sleep or feel miserable tomorrow, yeah, like that's a hard one.

So Kyle fluffed his drool-stained feather pillow and dove deeper into his bed, seeking warmth and luxury embedded in several forgiving layers of cotton and wool. He drifted quickly to sleep, an alacrity he never managed in their apartment in the city, his brain struggling to accommodate and ignore a veritable cacophony wrought by even particularly hushed nights. Mercifully he slept a peaceful repose devoid of any dreams, but for an old woman's lilting echo as his grip on reality faded. Look around, Kyle. There is much you must do here, Old Man. It was nonsense, obviously a fevered daydream as his mind and imagination fell out of sync, given verisimilitude as logical thought disintegrated. Part of him, his subconscious perhaps, stored the nonsense for posterity while Kyle slipped into blissful indifference.