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Show CHRYSALIS PAGE 226 I must be dreaming. It is ten years ago. Mark revs up his motorcycle. It sputters and roars, and a strong salt wind whips my hair far out behind. I clutch Mark' s middle with my knees and wrap my arms tight around him. Together we ride, flying, flying. The summer sky is a soft gentian blue. A second motorcycle swerves past us. The long-haired boy riding it shouts something to us, but it is lost in the wind, leaving only an echo. He rounds a corner, and a bus he had not counted on screeches to a halt, too late. The boy lies in the street, convulsing in the middle of his broken bike. Blood runs out of his mouth and nose, pouring into the street in crooked, lengthening rivers. I am sick. Great waves of panic leave me shivering all over, banging my teeth together. I double over and vomit all over my shoes. The pavement wavers, rises up and hits my nose. I breathe deeply. My back is cramped, and I feel nauseous. I've been time-traveling again. My panic disappears. I'll go back now, and sleep a little longer. I travel farther. It must be getting very late. The western sky is reddening the clouds of white dust the sheep have raised. My cousin Ginger and I have picked armfuls of buttercups and yellow asters, and |