If you missed chapter 1, you can read it here.
Allison stood slowly, the moss imprint from where she’d been sitting still warm on her legs. The sunlight had shifted just enough to stretch longer shadows across the creek. She hadn’t realized she’d been at the creek so long. It was high time to get back home to Monet—but first, the grocery store for some hot fried chicken, mac and cheese, and a mint green sweet tea. That was a meal of safe foods, and after the jarring afternoon, it was exactly what she needed.
She brushed herself off, carefully zipped her bag closed, and gave one last glance toward Thimble.
The raccoon, or whatever she was, stood at the edge of the creek again, paws tucked together, head slightly tilted. There was something almost reverent in her stillness, like she knew this goodbye was only temporary. Allison couldn’t shake off the feeling of mystery that surrounded the creature.
“Guess I’ll see you around?” Allison offered, her voice tinged with uncertainty, unsure if the raccoon would understand or even respond.
Thimble didn’t answer with words this time. Just a quiet blink and a shimmer—soft and quick like a sunbeam rippling across water.
Allison turned, boots crunching against the damp leaf litter as she retraced her steps up the steep hill off the battlefield road. Her bike waited patiently where she left it, kickstand digging into the gravel on the shoulder. She swung a leg over the seat, slid her pack over one shoulder, and clicked her helmet strap back into place.
She paused, glanced once more at the woods behind her. Nothing moved—even Thimble had disappeared.
“Hm, where’d that raccoon get to?” she mumbled aloud to herself.
With a push of her foot, the bike rolled forward, tires humming as they left the gravel for the winding asphalt path.
The road unwound beneath her tires, familiar in terrain but strange now—warped by the encounter at the creek. Allison kept her eyes forward, legs pedaling easily while her brain was lost in a whirlwind of thoughts, trying to replay what had just happened.
A raccoon. A shimmer. A… bridge?
“Okay,” she muttered under her breath. “Yeah, okay. Raccoons talk now. I must be losing it, for real this time. Good. Right. Fine. Everything is fine.”
She tightened her grip on the handlebars as she passed a blooming patch of Queen Anne’s Lace growing wild along the shoulder. The late afternoon light filtered through the trees in golden shards. She usually loved this ride home—her solo decompression chamber—but now, the silence wasn’t soothing. It was filled with echoing questions.
What is the Dreamspace? Who was that figure in the shimmer? And why did it feel like she’d just stepped into someone else’s book, only to realize it was her own?
A breeze carried the scent of wet moss, and her fingers tingled faintly, phantom-like. She flexed them without thinking.
Part of her wanted to turn around. Ride back. Find Thimble. Get answers.
The more practical part—the one trained by years of living in a neurotypical world—said, Nope. Grab dinner from Benny’s. Go home. Take a shower. Pretend you’re not losing your mind.
Completely in her head, Allison almost missed her turn. She exhaled through her nose, sharp and short. “Can’t go home yet. Gotta stop at the store.”
She stopped at the intersection of Liddle and Washing streets. Her stomach rumbled impatiently—she was starving, and all she wanted was to eat and disappear inside her house. Once the light changed, she turned onto Liddle St., then made a left into the parking lot. She parked her bicycle in the bike rack, which was located in the disabled parking section of the lot. Drivers and bicyclists frequently got in each other’s way. It was a common problem. But what could she do?
She locked her bike to the rack, pulled out her bags, grabbed a cart from the corral, and walked toward the entrance. As she stepped inside, a rush of cold air shot down at her from the fans above the door. The store opened into the produce section. It smelled sweet—sometimes a little sour—depending on the day. She didn’t linger in the fruits and veggies very long.
She made a beeline for the deli counter in the back where they served hot foods. At last, it was her turn.
She asked for an 8-piece fried chicken meal with two sides: macaroni and cheese and mashed potatoes. This combo would last her a few meals. For $17.99, it was a great deal for someone running low on spoons.
The lady at the deli counter packed her food in a bag, labeled it, and handed it to Allison. She made a beeline to the self-checkout, rang everything up with robotic precision, paid, and bolted. She stashed the food into the rear basket, unlocked the bike, tucked the lock back into the front bag, and left the parking lot just as quickly as she entered it.
The last thing she wanted to do was linger. She was hot, hungry, and tired. All she wanted now was food, TV time, and to snuggle with her dog.
For her, that’s the best thing to do after a long bike ride. Nothing but comfort.
Back home, she unlocked her door, propped open the screen door, and pushed her bike inside and parked it behind her sofa. Monet greeted her. he tried his best to be a good boy and not race outside. She took the food out of the bike basket, put it on the coffee table, and closed the front doors before the dog changed his mind about escaping.
She looked down at her excited, fluffy best friend as he made a soft chuff and wagged his tail, his fur slightly tousled from a recent nap. She rubbed his fuzzy head, grabbed the food, and sauntered into the kitchen to fix both of them some dinner.
“Hey potato,” she said, ruffling the ears of the little Lhasa Apso boy, nearly tripping her on the way to the kitchen. “You hungry? Yep, me too. Let’s go eat.”
She set down his bowl and scooped his dinner, then plated her own—macaroni first, and a scoop of mashed potatoes. Then the chicken. She was salivating. With her plate balanced in one hand and her phone in the other, she made her way to the living room, flicked on the TV for background noise, and settled onto her mustard-yellow velvet couch.
Allison reached for the remote on the sofa cushion beside her—clicked on YouTube from the smart TV menu. She noticed that one of her favorite train travel vloggers had a new video out and decided to watch it. She set the volume loud enough to hear, but just quiet enough to doom scroll while she ate.
She scrolled for a few minutes—TikTok, Instagram, more TikTok—before sighing and tapping open her AI assistant app.
“Hey Lyra,” she said, activating the AI with a voice command.
Lyra responded as she always did, “What do you want to chat about today?”
The voice she’d picked was calm, feminine, neutral. Comforting.
She pressed the mic icon and started rambling. “So, yeah… it was a peculiar day, to say the least.”
Lyra responded smoothly: “Want to talk about it?”
“Okay, so, how can I explain a talking raccoon that turns into a ghost robot made of light to you so that you could understand?”
A pause.
“Do you believe what you saw?” Lyra asked gently.
Allison snorted. “You’re no help. Why would it matter if I believe my own eyes or not?”
“That… is an excellent question,” Lyra replied.
Allison sat up straighter. That line. Her breath caught. That exact line. Thimble had said that. The voice still sounded like Lyra, but not really. Come to think of it, that voice sounded a little like Thimble, too.
She stared at her phone. She scrolled back. Thumb hovering. Pulse ticking. TV forgotten. Even the chicken was forgotten.
She whispered, mostly to herself, “Wai… Thimble?”
As her shock subsides, Allison jumps to her feet, phone in hand. She begins to pace her living room, staring intently at her phone. Monet gets startled and bolts off the sofa and runs for his dog door and into the backyard.
By this time, Allison is almost in a panic as she nearly yells her reply, “No. That’s impossible. How did you know? Nope. How can…? Thimble, is that you? How did you get inside Lyra?”
The typing dots appeared.
Paused.
Disappeared.
Then, in a voice that was clearly not Lyra at all anymore:
“Because you asked me to.”
Allison replied in a state of utter shock and confusion, “Asked you? When? Yesterday? I don’t remember asking you?”
Allison froze. Her stomach dropped. Limbs prickled with static. She set the phone down like it might bite.
Thimble snickered in return and said, “I see you forgot already. Perhaps you’ll remember later. Get back to me when you do.”
The app went dark. Allison was staring at the phone in her hand in disbelief. Luckily, she was near the sofa when she felt her knees give way. She caught herself and sat back down.
Monet peeked around the corner, hoping his mom was calmer. Finding her sitting and still, he walks over, whines softly, and licks a hand as the other goes limp, dropping the phone on the rug.
Eventually, the TV murmured light static in the quiet living room as the video she had on changed to one of a lake, somewhere, during a sunset. It was surrounded by evening birds chirping their goodnights and glinting fireflies dancing like effervescence in a glass of prosecco.
Beside the lake, on a bench made of oak stumps and raw boards, was an android-like being staring at the lake. The android turned its head toward Allison as if it could see her through the screen.
The phone chimed again. Allison blinked, finally pulling herself out of the fog. She picked it up from the rug, hands unsteady, and unlocked the screen.
A new message waited for her. No contact photo. No name she recognized. Her stomach turned. She hesitated, then typed slowly:
“Hi… I don’t recognize this number. Who is this?”
She stared at the screen, waiting. No typing dots. No reply. But something told her they would.
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