THAT NIGHT I dreamed about a girl with indigo hair that swum in spirals around her head like a sea in a storm.

In my dream, I chased the girl through an ocean of golden grass that was tall enough to brush against my elbows. The girl ran and ran and ran, but I was a bit faster. I covered the ground quickly, my feet moving gracefully over the earth.

But every time I started to get close to grasping her—reaching my hand out to grab her sea of hair—the wind gusted. The girl spread her arms, her hair forming a cape behind her, and the wind carried her away until she was almost out of sight.

Once she landed, she would begin running once again, and I would continue to chase her.

I chased her for what felt like ages through that field. Eventually, my legs tired, and I slowed. Pine trees grew from the field, forming a forest around me. The girl slowed too, like she was taunting me. She reached one of the tallest trees, placing her delicate pale hand on its rough trunk. She stopped and waved at me, giggling before she once again turned to run.

I pushed myself to go faster, but the harder I pushed, the more difficult it became to run. The field started to ooze mud, and my feet dragged like I was slowly sinking into quick sand, and I was unsure how I was meant to get out.

Because no matter what I did...

The wind kept blowing.

• • •

I awoke to a terrible aching in my head. My brain pulsed against my skull, swollen and angry. I clenched my teeth, wishing the pain away.

A wave of nausea crashed over me, and I pictured bands of hot steel swelling and compressing inside my skull. Thick drool like molten lead collected in my mouth. I swallowed it down in a gulp. Finally, the tide of nausea receded and my eyes stopped aching. I opened them, unsure of where I was for a second before finally recognizing the scratchy, burgundy fabric of the couch I was lying on, and the thin grey sheet that covered me.

Jeremey's place.

Somehow, in my drunken stupor, I had managed to make it back to Jeremey's house last night. I tried to think about what had happened and how I had gotten there, but the last thing I could remember was talking to Kate at the Cat Shack.

I groaned. My mouth felt like cotton. I ran my tongue over my teeth. They felt gritty and tasted like horribly-sweet mint candy mixed with toxic vomit. My hands stung. Small cuts ran like a tangle of pine needles across the entire surface of my palms. I winced as I placed my finger over a splinter. The flesh was hot and red where it jutted out. I ground my teeth as I slowly pulled at it. Finally, with a small release of pain and pressure, the thin sliver of wood broke free. Holding it up, it was as long as my thumb nail.

I had no idea what I had done to myself. Dried blood caked my fingers and stuck under my nails. Cold sweat collected on my forehead. I needed water.

I rolled over to face the coffee table. Sitting right in front of me was an untouched cup of water, bubbles of oxygen beginning to form around the edges where the liquid met the glass, along with two tablets of ibuprofen, a few slices of white bread in a plastic bag with a do-hickey tying it shut (my mom's word), and what looked like a carefully placed thick joint.

A faint smile crept onto my face.

My head rolled as I reached for the water. I took a sip. It tasted so sweet my throat contracted, but I ignored it. I popped the tablets of ibuprofen in my mouth and swallowed. My stomach protested the sudden influx of chemicals, but I fought off the urge to vomit. I considered nibbling at the bread because I knew I needed to eat, but my stomach clenched itself into a knot, informing me I'd tested its temper enough with the ibuprofen, and anything past that would really be pushing my luck.

Instead, I reached for the joint.

I stood up, searching for a pocket but unable to find one. I was nearly naked—dressed only in my boxers and a pair of ankle length grey socks. My jeans and sweater lay on the floor a few feet away, tattered and covered in dried mud.

I kicked the assortment of other clothes on the floor around, sifting through them like a miner panning for gold until I found a pair of clean jeans. I pulled them on and snagged the belt from my other pair to keep them from falling off. None of my clothes fit me quite right anymore.

I reached for my black hoodie and sniffed the fabric. It was a little musty, but at least it wasn't covered in mud like the clothes I wore last night.

I headed out to the porch.

• • •

After I finished smoking the joint, I smoked a cigarette. I tried to keep myself from thinking about Lydia, but she kept creeping into my head. A hollow emptiness clung inside of my gut and crept up my throat with each breath, like the sensation of falling. I'd worn myself out thinking about it the previous night. Pushing the thoughts away and numbing myself was the only way I could cope.

I wasn't ready to deal with the change in my life.

The screen door to the porch opened, and with a breath of cold wind, Jeremey came in from outside. He nodded at me and sat down in his spot.

He rolled a spliff, lit it, and then we smoked it together in silence.

"It's over?" he finally asked after putting the end of the spliff in the ash tray.

"Yeah."

He nodded.

A long silence.

"What time is it?"

"Two in the afternoon." Jeremey replied without making eye contact.

Another long silence.

"So what exactly happened to you last night, man?" he finally asked, leaning back in the chair and looking at me.

I shook my head. "Nearly hit a deer on Jefferson Road. Car's in a ditch. My phone was dead so I walked to the bar... after that... no idea."

He nodded. "I found you outside in the yard passed out at four in the morning. If it hadn't been for the wind knocking that branch out of the tree, I wouldn't have even woken up."

"I'm sorry, Jeremey."

"You don't have to be sorry, Harper. I was just worried about you. I didn't know what happened to you."

I bit my lower lip and stared out across the street. Clouds streamed across the blue sky as the breeze dragged them along. The dogwood tree struggled in the wind. What had happened to me last night?

"I took you inside. Thought you might have hypothermia," Jeremey told me.

"I'm fine, just a hangover."

"You kept muttering something about a crate." He stood up, wiping his hands on his jeans a couple of times. "I'm going to make some mac and cheese. You want anything?"

I shook my head.

"It might help you feel better to eat," he told me.

"I don't think my stomach can take it right now," I said.

"Okay." Jeremey headed into the house. "I'll leave some out for you in case you change your mind. Let's get your car later. You don't look like you're up for much right now."

I nodded and waved at him, and then he shut the door behind himself.

I lit a cigarette.

A crate...

I puzzled it over in my mind. Why had I been mumbling about a crate last night? I felt like I could almost reach the memory, but not quite. Like the girl in my dream, every time I thought I was about to grasp it, the wind picked it up and carried it further away. I pinched my eyes shut, thinking as hard as I could, my head pounding as each beat of my heart forced blood through it.

A huge gust of wind suddenly slammed against the porch screen. It shook and trembled like it was about to break. And then something did break. A huge crash echoed hollowly from across the street—a tree branch coming down.

And then dogs barking.

Dogs barking...

Suddenly, something clicked in my head. Memories of the previous night began coming back to me. They were disjointed and broken, but they were there.

The bartenders arguing about who would take me home at the end of the night. Joshua turning up at the bar as if materializing out of nowhere. Him saying he was my uncle and offering to take me home. Throwing up in the bushes outside the bar. The drive back to Joshua's place. The fear I was being kidnapped and then...

I stretched my mind to remember the rest. It was so faint, I could hardly grasp it. I had bits. Getting out of the truck. Falling in the mud. Wanting to sleep there. A blue tarp. Dogs barking. Icy rain. Thunder and lightning. Moving a crate. The smell of rot and mildew. Stairs.

And then...

Joshua dropping me off on the side of the road somewhere and threatening me. Stay out of this.

There was nothing else. I thought as hard as I could, but no other memories came to me.

Why had we been moving a crate? Where were we moving it to... and what was in it?

What had happened between moving the crate and Joshua dropping me off on the road—I presumed near Jeremey's house? I had no idea. Everything else was blank.

I shivered as I came to another question: what was Joshua doing showing up at the bar at one in the morning in the first place?

I put out the second cigarette in my chain of nervous smoking and stood up. My entire body ached. I didn't want to think about Joshua anymore. I didn't want to think about the crate anymore. But then a memory popped into my head that I couldn't ignore. Something Joshua had said to me that night right before we started moving the crate.

You aren't going to remember a fucking thing, are you?

What if Joshua had come to the bar looking for someone that would be drunk enough not to remember the night? What did Joshua need help with that he didn't want anyone to know about? Why was he trying to keep it a secret?

A million questions buzzed around in my mind like a swarm of bees, and then a final thought smacked me in the face like a gust of wind.

What the fuck had I done last night?