Mrs. Long sat alone, her programs droning on the small television, and she dozed, boredom numbing her very soul. The crosswords and commercials were almost unbearable. She could no longer care for herself, and had to wait each day for the hospice workers to arrive, while the space of her apartment gnawed on her nerves like rats behind the walls. And she looked forward to the dreams that rescued her from reality.

Loretta Long leaned back, chin in the air, her breath like a death rattle, and this time her dream was orange. Like a flame. A campfire. Warm, reassuring in the dark of a deep, unfathomable woods. Ah, she remembered in this comforting dream, her childhood home. The surrounding trees where the creatures spoke to her of things no mortal could understand. She drooled unknowingly as she traveled back to those days of hard work and happiness as a girl. It was all too real and she longed for her family again, and the dream, as many dreams will do, grew ominous, and began to smother her.

She awoke to the smell of smoke. Of burning flesh. The campfire was in her lap and she could not fan it away. The intense heat climbed up her chest as she spat out the last moisture in her mouth. And as this dream came to a close, all that was left of her, was just a pair of legs.