I was young when he came home. The little swaddle of blankets, the young, glowing face of a new addition to the world. As he grew, he earned the nickname of "Little Wolf" for his somewhat destructive and courageous nature. By one he had broken grandma's urn; by ten he had broken his elbow twice and his toes three times. On Christmas Day he broke his collarbone after daring to ride down the steepest hill in our neighborhood on the skateboard he unwrapped that morning.

My parents and I loved him more than anything. Which was what made it hurt so much when he went missing. He was in his bed, asleep, one evening and had disappeared out the window before the sun rose. I looked in the closets while my mother called the police. My young mind simply thought he was playing hide and seek.

We found him a week later. He was in the woods a mile from our home. When my nanny took me to the hospital to see him, he told me how much fun it was to sleep with the wolves. "But the bears," he said, fear in his young eyes, "the bears scared away the wolves...."

o-O-o

"SON! Don't you fall asleep behind the wheel!"

Sean's eyes shot open. He was in a car, a small sedan, idling between two buildings. He had an earpiece in, through which a husky male voice was shouting at him. "Okay, we're on the way out. Dicky goofed and tripped the alarm, so expect some action."

Glancing at the building to his right, Sean realized he was parked next to a bank. Bank... alarm... wait a second!

The bank's alleyway door busted open, and a gang of three men dashed out. They all wore black from head to toe, with the exception of Egyptian-style costume masks, cheap plastic models of various sarcophagus lids. The leading man was shorter and heavyset, his bald head shining in the streetlights. The guy behind him was tall and muscular, with black dreadlocks hanging down below his shoulders. The last one looked frail: a slim, bony frame and thin legs, a tuft of bleach-blond hair peeking over the top of his mask. The muscular one and the skinny one had three swollen black duffel bags: one slung over their shoulders and one in each hand. The heavy man tore his mask off, ran to the passenger door, and yanked it open, spilling into the shotgun seat.

"Whadaya thinkin', sitting here with the door's unlocked?!" he yelled at Sean. Before Sean could reply, there was a loud bang behind him. "Ay, open the trunk!" the fat man shouted. Sean reached down and pulled the switch. The two men tossed their bags in the back, slammed the lid closed, and piled in the back.

Sean, thinking everyone was there, reached to put the car in drive. The big guy slapped his hand. "Hold up a sec, Jonnie's headed out."

A second later, a lithe woman in a black catsuit and another Egyptian-themed mask came sprinting through the door, a large something slung over her shoulder. Sean, wiser this time, popped the trunk, and the woman dumped whatever into the trunk. Then she jumped in the backseat with the other guys.

"Alright, go, go! Hit a left outta the alley and let's blow this joint before the cops get here!"

As per the big guy's request, Sean threw the car in drive and burned rubber out of the alleyway. And just like that, he became an accomplice in a bank robbery.

"Alright," said the fat man, who Sean was beginning to see as the leader of the group, "you're gonna stay straight for about two miles, then hang a right and go 'til you hit the interstate." Turning to the back, he crooned, "Jonnie, baby, was a hostage really necessary?"

"It's just fah good meshah," Jonnie said in a thick Jersey accent. "We can take cara of her lateah, if we need ta."

A hostage? Take care of her?
Sean's eyes went wide. He glanced in the rearview at the posse, all of whom had taken off their masks. The muscle had a very tough face, and had had his nose broken a couple times. He looked very capable of 'taking care' of said hostage. But then the skinny one had a long scar running across his face, just below his eyes. He looked like he knew how to inflict pain. And Jonnie, with her excessive lipstick, was probably able to hold her own too.

"Hey, eyes on the road!"

Sean swerved back into his lane, narrowly  avoiding a head-on collision. "Look, I get that you're new to this," the fat man scolded him, "but you gotta focus. Don't do anything that will make us get pulled over." He glanced at the speedometer. "And slow down, willya? I get that we can pay the ticket, but we still can't afford to be caught." He leaned back in his seat, rubbing his temple. "Jeez, you're worse than the last guy."

Finding his voice, Sean asked, "What happened to the last guy?"

"Oh, he took a bullet to the liver. Bled out in that very seat." The leader chuckled. "It took forever to get the bloodstains out."

Sean went pale. I gotta end this dream, and quick. Dream bullets are just as good at perforating vital organs as real ones. I'll have to protect Annemarie somehow— hey, wait a sec. Where's—

His thoughts were interrupted by the right taillight popping out of socket.

The big guy swore. "So much for discreet. Punch it, kid, let's get outta here before the cops see this." Before Sean could react, a mass of bright blue lights appeared behind him. Another round of curses appeared from the passenger seat.
"Alright kid, let's see if you're worth that fifteen percent cut. Book it!"

Sean put the petal to the metal, driving like he never had before. He began to wish he had taken the pursuit driving elective his college offered a few semesters ago as a police cruiser pulled alongside. The cruiser began to move closer to the side of the getaway car, trying to force it off the road. Sean did what he had seen on many racing movies: he hit the brakes. The cruiser swerved across the road and Sean hit the gas, pulling away from his pursuers.
"Nice move, kid!" praised the fat man.
Okay, great, I'm escaping the cops, but how does this tie into the dream?

At the gang leader's request, Sean merged onto the deserted interstate and pushed the car to its limit. The speedometer read 120; the banging under the hood was nearly as loud as the banging coming from the trunk. Escape seemed not only possible, but probable.
And then both back tires exploded.

Foot still heavy on the accelerator, but no longer accelerating, Sean tried to guide the car to the roadside, but the big guy wouldn't let him. Through the obscenities, he instructed his driver to "Keep the —— car moving!"

Another police car pulled up beside the getaway car. Sean tried the same move as before, but the lack of back tires sent his car into a fishtail. There was the sound of screeching metal, a loud crash, and then silence.

"Get out of the car!"

Sean lifted his head from the steering wheel. The airbag had gone off, and he felt the affect of its impact. His vision was blurry, but he saw the fat guy was mostly unharmed. In the rearview (which was now hanging by a couple wires) he saw the thin guy was bloodied, but intact. The muscle's nose had been broken once again, and Jonnie had cuts from shattered glass on the side of face.

"Get out of the car with your hands up!"

The officer on the bullhorn sounded pretty convincing to Sean, and the sight of a dozen weapons trained on the car sealed the deal. Very slowly, he thrust his door open and stepped out, hands to the sky. He caught sight of the trunk, and his heart sunk. It had taken the brunt of the impact when the car spun, and a tree trunk was sprouting out of the wreckage right where Annemarie's head should have been.

Eyes blurring again, this time not from the head trauma, Sean felt something inside him break. He fell to his knees, hands now supporting his head. Over his inner turmoil, he heard the police man command: "The rest of you, exit the vehicle with your hands—"

Behind Sean, the windows shattered as the car's occupants opened fire on the policemen. The officers returned shots from behind their own vehicles, as Sean hit the ground, a volley of lethal bullets whizzing over his head.