Dreamland (Riley Bloom 3)

Was it true?

Could it possibly be?

And if so, does that mean Bodhi had lied to me?

“See, the thing is,” Mort continued, his voice pitching louder, invading my thoughts. “They don’t want us interfering too much. Each soul, each person, has to find their own way—learn their own lessons. And let’s face it, most people only learn the hard way. No one ever volunteers for change. Even when the situation they’re in makes them unhappy, most people would rather stick with the unhappy they know, than take a chance on something unknown. And I’ll tell ya from experience that it’s not an easy thing to watch. But, in the end, it’s all for the best. It’s all those rough bits that make us stronger. The tough stuff makes us grow and mature. Which is why you can’t go around protecting everyone from the world that they live in. You have to let them learn to navigate it all on their own. If you interfere, if you don’t let them find their own way, you’ll stunt them, keep them from learning, progressing. And I’ll tell you right now, that sort of thing leads to no good.”

I nodded as though I understood every word, as though I agreed wholeheartedly. Though, the truth is, my gaze was unsteady, unfocused, as a blur of thoughts and images swirled through my head.

“And, as you’ll soon see, they’re very careful to regulate that sort of well-intentioned interference when it comes to dream visitations. Though there are ways to get around it, the truth is, it’s rarely worth the bother. It requires loads of complicated symbolism, and for the most part, people either can’t remember it, or worse, they muck it all up when they try to interpret it. I gave all that up a while ago. It just got too frustrating. Now I just pop in when I can, try to send a little comfort and love, and leave it at that.”

“And does it work?” I asked, remembering what I overheard Mort saying to his friend the first time I saw them. How he often visited his grieving wife in her dreams, wanting her to know he was A-okay. But the moment she woke up, she shrugged it off—convinced herself it wasn’t real. Just something her brain cooked up to make her feel good.

I looked at him, waiting for an answer, but then the train came to a halt, the doors sprang wide open, and Mort looked at me and said, “This is it. Dreamland. We’re here.”

8

It probably doesn’t make much sense to say: “It’s not what I thought it would be,” about a place you never really thought about before. And yet, those were the first words that sprang to mind when I gazed upon the big, sparkly, half moon–shaped sign that read: WELCOME TO DREAMLAND.

It wasn’t at all like I’d thought.

I guess I was expecting it to be more like a movie theater. A big dark room full of chairs with cup holders punched into the arms, and a large, wide screen projecting all kinds of crazy, mixed-up images that somehow found their way to the dreamer.

But instead, I was greeted by a tall iron gate and a glass-enclosed guardhouse with a very serious-looking guard who studied us closely.

Mort made his way forward, said a quick and friendly hello, then patiently waited, thumbs hitched into his belt loops, humming an unfamiliar tune, as the guard gave him a thorough once-over. Tapping the tip of his pointy red pen along the edge of a long sheet of paper until he found what he was looking for, placed a thick check mark beside it, then shot Mort another stern look as he waved him right in. And even though Buttercup and I were quick on Mort’s heels, hoping to sneak in alongside him, it seems Buttercup was quicker than I was.

The second my foot tried to sneak its way in, the gate slammed closed before me, as the guard glared and said, “State your name and your business, please.”

I gulped, gazed longingly at my friends who were standing where I needed to be, mumbling a quick: “Uh, my name is Riley Bloom.” Trying my best not to fiddle with my fingers, chew my hair, twitch my knee, or engage in any other kind of nervous giveaway as I watched him flick his pen down the long sheet of paper. “As for my business …” I arranged my face into what I hoped resembled a pleasant smile, thinking a little friendliness might help speed things along. “Well, I’m hoping to send someone a dream.”

Mort gasped, wheezed, cleared his throat in a way that was so much louder than necessary. And when my eyes found his, I knew just what he was up to—he was trying to divert the attention from me.

Although it may have seemed as though I hadn’t really said much of anything, apparently what I had said was enough to keep me from entering.

But it was too late. The guard had already narrowed his eyes, was already in the middle of saying, “Excuse me? What did you just say?”

He leaned forward, pressing toward me in a way that, well, had I still been alive would’ve made me blush crimson. Though, as it was, I just stood there all bug-eyed and mute, replaying my words, unable to pinpoint just where I’d failed.

I glanced at Mort, hoping he could help, but from the resigned look in his eyes, I was all on my own.

“Um, what I meant was that I’m here to send someone a dream.” Already cringing well before the words were all out. Seeing the guard’s mouth go all twisty and grim, as Mort just sighed and covered his face with his hands. “I mean, maybe I’m not familiar with the lingo, maybe I don’t know all the correct terms, but all I want to do is …”

Dream visitation. Tell him you’re here for a dream visitation!

Although it seemed like the thought just randomly popped into my head, I knew there was nothing random about it. Not even close. The words came with Mort’s unmistakable East Coast accent. It wasn’t so much a telepathic message, as an order I’d better seriously follow if I wanted to be on the same side of the gate as Buttercup and him.

“I just want to, uh, visit someone in a dream,” I said, holding the smile that was growing so stiff it made my cheeks sting. “You know, like a dream visitation, that’s all.”

The guard looked at me, his face still stern. Holding his silence for so long, I was just about to cut my losses and leave, when he said, “So why didn’t you say so?” He shook his head, scribbled my name at the bottom of his list before placing a fat red check mark beside it. “And just so you know, for the record, we don’t create dreams here, young lady. Dreamweaving hasn’t taken place for …” He frowned, gazed into the distance as though studying an invisible calendar only he could see. “Well … let’s just say it’s no longer done. Though, if you’re interested in a dream jump, well, then you’ve come to the right place.” He smiled brightly, his eyes shining, his cheeks widening—the change so dramatic, so startling, he looked like an entirely different person. “Only a few hours ’til closing though. Not sure if they’ll get to you today. But just in case, you better wear this.”

He slid me a badge that I immediately attached to my tee. The gate opened before me as I wondered how a place like this could actually close, when back home on the earth plane, people were dreaming in all different time zones. Loads of people heading for sleep just as a whole other load were starting their day. But knowing better than to push it, I decided to just shrug and smile and add it to the long list of things that didn’t make any sense.

No sooner was I safely inside, when a heavily accented voice said, “Gah! Who is this wonder? What is this vision I see here before me?”

I turned toward the voice, curious to see whom it belonged to. Noticing the way Mort stepped quickly aside, his face full of awe, as he made way for a short, rotund man with a wispy goa

tee and dark glossy hair that appeared solid black, aside from the thick white skunk stripe that fell down the front.