The Dream Defenders: The Dream Defenders, #1

By Neal DenHartog

When fourteen-year-old Nolan Erling wakes up with a headache for the fourth straight day, he suspects the likely culprit to be any number of things—from his annoying baby brother, to vehicular crashes with his elderly neighbor, or even his questionable late-night food choices—not his dreams.

Aeryn Sandman knows the true cause, though. She is a junior agent with the DREAM Institute, a secret organization tasked with protecting the world's population while they sleep, and she's on her first assignment.

Her mission: infiltrate Nolan's life—and his dreams—and keep him safe, all while persuading him to join their protective force.

But recruitment missions are no walk in the park, and Aeryn's goes horribly wrong when Nolan's powers unwittingly unleash two dream creatures locked away in a restricted area of the dream world. While Aeryn and Nolan search for ways to contain the escaped beings, they uncover a much greater conspiracy.

For these dreams can kill, and someone is orchestrating their actions in the dream world. If Aeryn and Nolan can't figure out who is behind it, no dreamer will be safe, and neither will the organization that defends them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: August Inkling Press
• Release date: Jun 11, 2019
• ISBN: 9781733839600

Book preview

Chapter One

Tattoos and Tasers

Nolan knew he must be dreaming when he found his algebra teacher at a tattoo parlor. Math teachers with tattoos are probably less rare than you would think, but Mr. Shupert had recently come out of retirement and was easily pushing eighty years old, so it surprised Nolan to see him getting ink done. Nolan supported the right to decorate one’s body with some skin art, but he had a hard time believing the needle bouncing off his teacher’s exposed wrinkly left butt cheek was the best life decision for the former retiree.

Whoa. Frostee, what’s going on? He always referred to his teacher by his first name when not in class. Frostee had been his neighbor for far longer than he had been his math teacher. Some of Nolan’s earliest memories were of the kind gentleman living next door.

Frostee raised his head from a pillow, his jowls forming into a wide grin. His bright blue eyes gleamed, and a tuft of wild gray hair stood at attention in the middle of his otherwise bald dome.

Nolan! You getting ink too? His wisp of hair seemed to point at an open chair next to him.

Nolan shook his head. Nah, I’ll pass. I’m a little too young. And you… you’re a little too old, aren’t you?

Since when do I act my age? Sure you won’t join me? Frostee stared at him for a moment, eyes pleading. No? How about your friend there?

Nolan glanced around the tattoo parlor, looking for this so-called friend. He didn’t even know how he had ended up here. Dim lighting revealed several pages of artwork hanging on a nearby wall. A myriad of flowers, skulls, fearsome animals, and tribal designs displayed the artist’s prowess. The tattooist continued with the job at hand, hunched over Frostee’s behind with the needle, unperturbed by Nolan’s arrival. In a nearby chair sat Johnny Brunsen, an overdeveloped freshman from his school, who looked like he should be playing division one football somewhere.

Don’t drag me into this, the boy said. If that old coot’s getting a tattoo, count me out. I don’t even know why you brought me here.

I brought you here? Nolan remembered doing no such thing.

Yeah, I was teaching Wheezy McHackerson a lesson when you grabbed me, and next thing I know, we’re sitting here watching this old geezer get his butt tatted.

"His name is Wesley," Nolan said. Wesley Gunderson was a tiny asthmatic kid in his class, ideal prey for the likes of Johnny.

Whatever. Johnny turned his attention to the tattoo in progress. So why the butt cheek, Frostee?

Nolan glared at Johnny. When he used his neighbor’s first name it was highly disrespectful.

Best place to hide a tattoo. Frostee grinned. Didn’t want to risk it being seen by anyone.

Too late. Nolan rubbed his eyes, but the unsightly image continued to dance on the back of his eyelids.

Frostee laughed a cheery laugh, like the entire situation was the most comical thing that had ever happened to him. Nolan usually found his cheerfulness quite endearing—that is, until he wrote some complicated algebraic equations with manic glee on the outdated chalkboard in his classroom for his students to solve. Then it was just downright annoying.

Tell me it’s something cool, at least. Against his better judgment, Nolan inched closer to the table to get a look at Frostee’s tattoo. The elderly man’s wrinkly rear end was already burned into his retinas, so he might as well take a peek at what meant enough to Frostee that he would want to permanently enshrine it on his backside.

So far, the artist had only traced a faint outline. Nolan squinted sideways to gain a different perspective.

Is that a dog? Johnny asked, staring down at him too.

Not just any dog. That’s Scranton, isn’t it? Nolan asked incredulously.

Sure is!

Scranton was Frostee’s pug, and the dog was probably the old man’s best friend, next to Nolan. He adored that goofy chub of a dog. Apparently, the tattoo-my-butt level of adoration. Nolan loved the dog too, although Scranton lacked a certain intelligence. He would eat rocks, refused to do his business if the grass was wet, and would occasionally run into walls and tables after excitedly spinning in circles for a while. On the flip side, his loyalty to his owner and Nolan never wavered.

Well, that’s… uh, cool, Nolan tried to say enthusiastically.

Frostee continued to grin, whether he believed Nolan or not.

The old coot’s getting a dog tattoo. He’s crazier than I thought. A smug smirk crossed Johnny’s face.

Nolan stomped the older kid’s foot, not caring if Johnny wanted to teach him a lesson too in response. No one should talk like that to the elderly.

Come on, Johnny, let’s go. Let Frostee have some privacy. Nolan backed away from Frostee’s backside, looking around for an exit.

If there was one, he didn’t see it. Behind him, an expanse of darkness spread out where the other walls should have been. The single hanging light bulb failed to illuminate anything beyond them. If Nolan wasn’t certain before, now he knew he was dreaming. What sort of tattoo shop exists in the void of space?

Uh, Frostee? Where are we?

Looks like a tattoo parlor to me?

Nolan wasn’t sure if Frostee was stating the obvious to be deliberately difficult. Probably, since he had said it with a wide grin.

A breeze blew through the room, rustling some of the artwork on the one visible wall. Where the wind had come from, Nolan had no idea. A drawing of a peace sign fluttered a bit, and the bars began to rotate along the page, swirling toward the center in a spiral. Nolan stared at it, both mesmerized and weirded out at the same time.

Are you seeing this? he asked of his neighbor, but the man stayed silent.

Yeah, it’s a peace sign, you idiot, Johnny said.

Then the most incredible thing of the night happened: a pair of hands emerged from the swirling ink stain, followed by the owner of those hands. A behemoth of a man squeezed through the tiny hole. How he had fit through it, Nolan had no clue, but the man somersaulted out and landed on his feet with a grace that belied his giant size.

Nolan instinctively backed up farther as the man spread his arms in a nonthreatening manner and said, I come in peace.

Seriously.

Ha, get it? Peace sign. No? The newcomer laughed at his joke, despite the awfulness of it, and he grinned a broad smile, his emerald eyes shining like marbles buried under a vast, sloping forehead and a military-style haircut. With skin the color of coffee beans, the man’s watermelon-sized biceps stretched the limits of his tight black shirt. He easily towered over both Nolan and his larger companion.

The stranger could have been a linebacker in the NFL. Or a professional wrestler.

Nothing? Not even a chuckle? The man frowned and cleared his throat. Well, then, the name’s Penchant Downing, and before you get all scared and run off again, just let me talk for more than ten seconds tonight.

Just let me talk—Nolan’s mother used that tactic from time to time when she wanted to lecture him about something. Getting lectured in his dreams tonight sounded like torture.

You see an exit, Johnny? We really should go.

Penchant took a step toward them. I need you both to hold on for a moment, please. Poor Johnny’s brain can’t handle another switch with you.

I don’t think poor Johnny has a brain.

Hey! the boy shouted.

Nolan, you need to stop interrupting people’s dreams. The large man pointed at Johnny, then back in the general direction of Frostee.

But Frostee had vanished, leaving the tattoo artist to needle away at the air in front of him.

Some friend.

There are consequences to dream sharing, and if you continue to do so, you may end up hurting your friends.

Nolan wasn’t sure Johnny fell into the friend category.

Another breeze blew through the parlor, and the drawing of the peace sign fluttered to the floor by Nolan’s feet. The black vortex continued to swirl at its center. Much like the picture, thoughts swirled in Nolan’s head. If that was an entrance, maybe it was an exit too.

Good talk. Gotta go, Nolan said, and he hopped onto—no, into—the drawing, pulling Johnny Brunsen with him.

The stranger moved more quickly than what should have been possible, lunging at the boys sinking into the drawing. Penchant grabbed a collar in each hand, but they were already waist-deep in the vortex. Despite his brute size, he could not yank them free. Instead, a violent tug pulled all three of them under. The world went black for a moment, and next thing he knew, Nolan was tumbling across a dirt patch in someone’s garden.

You’re back! a scratchy voice called from Nolan’s right.

He looked over to find Wesley Gunderson buried up to his neck in the dirt, grime streaked across his thick-framed glasses, hair sticking straight in the air like a carrot top. So, buried alive is what Johnny meant when he said he was teaching the kid a lesson.

Penchant emerged from a nearby tomato plant, careful to step over Johnny, who was spitting up dirt. Holy hopscotching honeybees! I told you to sit still. I can’t let you torment this poor boy again.

I’m not the one who buried him in the ground!

I really hate to have to do this, Nolan, but these boys need their rest without you messing up their dreams. The big guy reached for a holster on his belt.

Instinctively, Nolan scrambled backward in the dirt. But I didn’t do anything!

Sorry, Nolan. Promise we’ll speed up the timetable soon. Your powers are getting out of control.

Powers? If Nolan was dreaming of being a superhero, it sure didn’t show. Before he could blink, Penchant towered over him, a sleek handheld device with an arcing electrical current held in one hand.

Dude, you’re getting tased! Johnny laughed.

But when the device hit him, Nolan didn’t feel a shock. Instead, the world constricted around him, squeezing his body so hard he couldn’t even move his eyes. His thoughts slowed, and then everything went black.

Chapter Two

Hubert

Nolan didn’t remember much of his dreams, or much of his morning, for that matter. He awoke with an ear-splitting headache, as if tiny elves had sneaked into his room last night and drilled his head with a hundred little jackhammers.

What causes sleep-induced migraines? he wondered.

Stress?

Bad dreams?

That questionable late-night leftover sandwich? He had known tuna salad was a poor choice.

At some point he tossed on jeans and a hoodie and ventured downstairs to seek out some coffee, but his mother was sitting at the kitchen table, jingling a noisy toy in front of his baby brother, Max. Both his mom and dad were constantly doting over the newest addition to the family, and it irritated Nolan beyond belief. No coffee in the world was worth traversing the kitchen with all the oohs and aahs and baby speak going on.

Oh, hey, Nolan, his mother said pleasantly.

Crap. He had lingered in the doorway far too long. He grumbled something that resembled hey in return. At least, it sounded like it in his mind.

You’re a man of few words. She gave the toy a vigorous wiggle and spoke some more baby babble at Max.

Nolan’s head throbbed.

Dad’s at work already. He went in early, so he could leave for Max’s doctor appointment. I need to clean and change the kiddo, then I gotta go too. Do you mind hitching a ride to school with Frostee?

That would not be a problem. He would gladly catch a ride with his neighbor, even though riding in his deathtrap of a pickup was sketchy. Frostee said it had character. Nolan wondered if the next loose bolt would turn it into a pile of scrap metal.

Yeah, no prob. He darted away from the doorway, eager to get out of the house and away from Max.

Nolan backtracked to his room to gather his school belongings with a twinge of guilt. He didn’t want to be the stereotypical mopey teenager, responding with monosyllabic replies and caveman-esque grunts. Today, he would blame it on the headache. Tomorrow, maybe he’d make a better effort.

It didn’t take long for Nolan to wander next door. Frostee lived in an impressive two-story home with off-white siding and mahogany trim. A large, multi-paned window faced the street from the second level above the double-stall garage. Why Frostee needed a double-stall garage was beyond him, as his beat-up pickup always resided in the driveway. Nolan hustled past it, around crumbling landscaping in need of an upgrade that encircled a couple of birch trees.

He let himself in without knocking and called out, Frosteeeeee! What’s up, man?

Funny, simply crossing the threshold made his head feel a little better.

There was no reply from Frostee, but Scranton bolted around the corner, his claws clicking furiously along the hardwood floor. After all the years living with Frostee, the pug still had issues navigating, and he slid across the wood. He should have crashed right into the hallway table, but instead, seemed to pass through it with a puff of smoke. Nolan shook his head, wondering if the headache was making him see things.

The pug closed the rest of the distance quickly and spun in a few excited circles at Nolan’s feet, still intact and still chubby, yet utterly cute, in a wrinkly, ugly sort of way. Nolan bent down and scratched him affectionately behind the ears.

Hey, buddy! Good to see ya.

The dog yipped in agreement, then crooked his head sideways, as if to say, Frostee’s this way. Nolan followed him into the living room, where he proceeded to bark and run circles around the armchair that propped up his sleeping neighbor. Frostee’s jowls hung slightly open, and a soft snore escaped him. Whether he had fallen asleep that way last night or he was sneaking in an early-morning nap, Nolan couldn’t be sure. Sometimes he wondered if Frostee did anything other than sleep. More often than not, he found the man napping, usually out back in his favorite hammock.

Scranton, let him be, Nolan said. There were still forty-five minutes until the school bell. More than enough time to whip up some scrambled eggs and bacon for his friend.

While Nolan prepared the meal, he scooted a dining room chair near the stove, so Scranton could hop up and watch. The pug salivated over the crackling pork goodness with interest, two front paws on the headrest of the chair and butt waggling in anticipation. Once he finished, Nolan tossed him a couple of pieces as he scooped the breakfast onto two plates. The dog nabbed the bacon and retreated with his prize.

Nolan! Frostee ambled into the kitchen, perhaps woken up by the seductive scent of bacon. He had gotten a little round in his old age, and he was practically as wrinkly as the pug, but he moved well, and his mind was sharp. You didn’t have to make breakfast.

It’s the least I could do. Nolan smiled. I need a ride again.

You remember my heater’s broken, right? Frostee reminded him as he gathered some notebooks from the dining room table and stuffed them into a satchel. The mornings were cool here near Flagstaff, but not arctic cool. Even a heater-less truck was better than nothing.

I know. So is the AC. And the wipers. And the brakes. And the—

Frostee cut him off. The brakes aren’t broken. They’re just… struggling a little.

Struggling? You almost took out that biker yesterday! Nolan dropped a plate and fork in front of each of them.

Bah!

You hopped the median. Ran that red light.

They still work! Frostee claimed through a mouthful of eggs. Just not as well as they used to. Or should, he added under his breath.

Nolan smiled again and stuffed his face, hoping the food would somehow alleviate his headache.

When they finished, Frostee cleared their plates and tossed them in the sink. Would you look at the time, he said, glancing at an imaginary wristwatch. We gotta go.

Nolan frowned and followed him to the door.

Keep an eye on things while I’m gone, Frostee instructed Scranton as they left the house, which Nolan found an odd thing to say to a pug. If watching things meant sleeping, chasing his own shadow, and tearing up the occasional pillow, the house would be in good hands.

Frostee’s dented and faded navy blue pickup waited for them outside. Years ago, his neighbor had given it the nickname Hubert. The back bumper hung at a precarious angle, and rust spots had almost devoured the wheel wells completely. The muffler was long gone, if there’d ever been one, so the truck sounded like a herd of woolly mammoths going down the road. Both doors protested loudly as the pair clambered inside. Immediately, Nolan strapped himself in with the seat belt, noting the frayed edges that looked unlikely to hold up in a crash.

Frostee caressed the dash as he turned the key. C’mon, buddy, he coaxed the vehicle. Thankfully, after a few sluggish churns, the engine caught, and Hubert roared to life.

Gleeful joy danced in the old man’s eyes. And you doubted old Hubert? Tsk. Tsk.

We haven’t left the driveway yet, Nolan pointed out. Get me to school in one piece and I’ll apologize.

Deal.

While Frostee navigated out of the residential area, Nolan leaned against the door, one hand on his throbbing temple. Blurs of trees and homes passed briskly along the drab gray skyline, slowing for the occasional stop sign. It didn’t take Frostee long to pick up on his silence.

Headache again this morning?

Nolan sighed. Yeah. Same as yesterday.

Hmm.

And the day before that, he added. And the day before that one.

You’re not eating right before bed, are you? That can screw with your dreams, Frostee said, the tuft of hair on his head bobbing in agreement.

Nolan briefly remembered the questionable tuna salad sandwich from last night, but then frowned at the thought. No, no dreams, he said with a shake of the head as he tried to recall anything from the previous evening. A vague recollection of running from something taunted him at the edge of his memory. At least, not ones I can remember.

Perhaps you should have your parents take you to the doctor.

Oh, they were heading to the doctor today. Nolan’s head throbbed harder. For Max.

How are things with the two of them? The truck shuddered to a reluctant stop at a red light with a cacophony of metal on metal.

You sure that’s normal? Nolan asked. Sounds like a sheet of aluminum strangling a cat.

We stopped, didn’t we?

If you call that a stop. The pickup now straddled the crosswalk, its nose dangerously close to the lane of cross traffic.

Bah! Frostee waved an annoyed hand and waited for the light to turn.

Your parents. How are you getting along? he ventured again.

Nolan sighed. He’d aired his frustrations with Frostee before. Things weren’t unpleasant… but something had shifted when Max came along. A year ago, he had been so close with his dad. They used to hang out together all the time, and had even run a race together. It was one of those cool races where you got to run through mud and climb over walls and chuck spears at things. He felt like a superhero by the end, and they resolved to tackle more races the following summer. Then Max was born, and they didn’t even try to attend the ones they had planned. Dad stopped training with him, and his mother didn’t go anywhere without Max attached to her hip.

Any other kid his age would have been ecstatic his parents didn’t shove their noses in every aspect of his life. Nolan supposed he should enjoy the freedom away from prying eyes and be happy he didn’t have to answer a hundred and one questions every day.

They really love Max, he said. Frostee’s silence invited him to continue. And I feel… forgotten.

Frostee’s expression softened. They haven’t forgotten you, Nolan. You’re too special to forget. They’re only… distracted, you know, with the newness of the situation.

Nolan frowned.

Believe me, it will wear off eventually. Max is like a new iPhone to your mom and dad.

An iPhone? Nolan didn’t follow. Frostee was known to wander off topic quite often.

Yeah, he’s that exciting and new must-have gadget that crazy people camp outside of stores for. And do you know what happens to a new iPhone after a few days?

I dunno.

It’s merely another phone! Nothing exceptional. Another tool in someone’s pocket. He smiled at Nolan reassuringly. Pretty soon they’ll remember they’ve got other tools that are just as good and just as useful.

Nolan’s brow crinkled. So you’re calling me a tool?

Well, no. But, yeah… I mean, you know what I’m getting at. Frostee itched his nose. Sorry, not the best analogy. When you think about it, though, the original iPhone was pretty phenomenal.

And that’s me in this scenario?

Frostee grunted in agreement.

Bad analogy aside, he had a point. Maybe Nolan needed to give his parents some time. Little Max was a miracle baby, after all. They had adopted Nolan fourteen years ago, under the impression his mother could never have kids. Her pregnancy surprised them all, and despite their assurances to Nolan that nothing would change, nearly everything had. Perhaps with a little more time they would remember their oldest son still needed them to be there for him.

He smiled at his friend behind the wheel, feeling better. Hanging with Frostee seemed to take the edge off his headache.

So if I’m an iPhone, what does that make you? Nolan asked. One of those original cell phones the size of a brick?

Frostee cocked an eyebrow. You sure you want to make this an age thing, young man?

Don’t I always?

Ha! Frostee laughed boisterously. Ah, yes. Age jokes. The Nolan Erling specialty. After a pause he continued, You missed the mark here, though. I’m way too old to be a cell phone. I’m pretty sure I’m more qualified to be a rotary phone. Those things are so ancient, I bet you’ve never even seen one.

The comment brought another chuckle to Nolan’s lips, and it may have turned into a deeper belly laugh if he hadn’t noticed his school approaching fast on the left.

Frostee. Turn! he urged a second too late as he braced himself. The entrance to the parking lot sped toward them, and Frostee had been too distracted to notice.

His friend yanked the wheel and jammed both feet on the brake pedal, not slowing down nearly enough for the turn—or perhaps unable to. Nolan crashed against the passenger door. A frightened yelp escaped his lips as he wondered if it would hold his weight as the force of the turn pressed him hard against it. The truck shuddered like one of those sketchy roller-coasters at the carnival that should have been condemned years ago, one rusty piece of straining metal away from flying off the rails. It took all of Frostee’s concentration to regain control of the steering wheel and straighten the pickup out, but they were still speeding along the asphalt. Far too fast for a parking lot.

Up ahead, a white-haired old lady shuffled across the lot, head down and shoulders stooped. She paid no attention to the runaway death trap bearing down on her.

E-brake! Nolan frantically gripped the armrest and seat cushion. E-brake!

What makes you think this truck has an E-brake!

Instead, Frostee gave the wheel another sharp jerk. The pickup skidded, missing the old lady by mere inches. A stack of books and papers flew from her arms as she jumped back in shock. They rumbled ahead and hopped the curb.

Sorry! Frostee shouted as he corralled the runaway vehicle. Brakes are out!

The wheels churned along the soft grass, slowing them down somewhat. On the other side of a small clearing, directly in their path of destruction, a line of cars unloaded kids for class. Not the best target for an out-of-control hunk of scrap metal.

Frostee! Pine tree!

What about it? Lines of dread etched along his wrinkles as he stared at the row of vehicles up ahead.

Hit it! It should stop us. The truck’s momentum had fizzled some, but they were still moving fast enough to cause some damage, especially if they barreled into that train of cars.

Aww, poor Hubert, he said, and changed course toward a tall pine twenty feet away.

Nolan felt no sympathy for the old truck. Better a tree than a van full of kids!

They rumbled over a couple of bushes and hit the outer branches of the tree with a burst of pine cones, finally coming to an abrupt stop against the trunk. Nolan’s head bounced off the dash as they lurched to a stop. The pickup’s lack of airbags didn’t surprise him in the least. This was not going to help his headache.

The two of them sat back in their seats for a second to catch their breath. You okay? Frostee asked after a moment.

Yeah, Nolan replied, rubbing his forehead where it had struck the dash.

Maybe it is time to fix the brakes, Frostee conceded.

Better yet, time for a new truck.

On a retired substitute teacher’s salary? Pfft. In your dreams, bud.

Frostee glanced out the rearview mirror, where the frightened old lady in the paisley dress attempted to pick up her belongings.

Look, I’ll deal with all this, he said. He gestured between the crumpled vehicle and the woman, a broad smile painted on his face. You hurry on up to school.

Sure, Nolan said, eager to get out of the car.

What a perfect little icebreaker, Frostee said as they exited. He dusted his palms on his khaki pants and looked longingly at the lady he had just tried to run over.

Oh no. Nolan fought back a swallow of revulsion. Ms. Addison? The librarian?

"Ms., you say? Sounds promising. His eyes brightened. That’s what we call fate, son."

You realize she has a hunchback, right?

A sexy hunchback, Frostee corrected him.

Nolan gagged a little more and shook his head. Frostee was already prancing gleefully across the lawn in the direction of Ms. Addison as Nolan trudged toward the school.

Chapter Three

Algebra

Aeryn tiptoed nervously down the halls of Zenith High, squeezing around packs of students gossiping about news of the morning’s vehicular mishap in the teachers’ parking lot. Her nervousness stemmed, not from an American History test that loomed in fourth period, nor from a speech she was scheduled to give in the afternoon. No, today Aeryn would make contact with the fourteen-year-old boy she’d been observing for the past two weeks. During their morning briefing, her supervisor had informed her that the timetable was moving up. Nolan could no longer dream without intervention. He was too much of a danger.

Apparently, he was a danger in real life too, having almost run down the school’s librarian in the parking lot this morning. She overheard him adamantly telling a group of sophomores that Ms. Addison was not in the hospital, and the only thing the truck had actually struck was a pine tree that now leaned unnaturally toward the east from the force of the impact.

The first two periods of the day passed with Aeryn daydreaming, silently rehearsing how to approach the boy in her mind. This was her first official assignment, and she did not want to screw it up. She entered Mr. Shupert’s algebra class later that morning and hung out by the door, hiding behind a group of girls in conversation as she waited for the boy to arrive.

Nolan entered and shuffled toward a desk, but Mr. Shupert, who was lounging behind his desk with his feet up, perked up and sang to him, And her name was… Miranda!

Oh, good lord, Nolan said. Then, after a pause, Is she okay?

She will be after dinner tonight.

Nolan shuddered and found a seat in the second row, slumping forward and burying his head in his arms. Aeryn ducked into the desk behind him. She didn’t blame him for resting his head. After learning Penchant had been forced to perform another mind wipe, she knew his headache would be a particularly nasty one. He would be in no mood to talk, but Aeryn wasn’t about to let that stop her.

She jabbed him sharply in the back.

He didn’t lift his head. Yes? he asked into his sweatshirt, not hiding his annoyance.

Heard you and Mr. Shupert got into the landscaping business.

He turned to face her now, long blond hair falling across his eyelids. Landscaping?

She grinned. Yeah. Cutting down grass and taking out bushes and trees. Most people would have used a lawnmower and a chainsaw, though.

Nolan blinked, silent.

To be honest, those bushes needed to go. Hideous, if you ask me.

The boy next to her caught Nolan’s eye and leaned forward. Heard the old coot tried to kill someone, he said with a sneer.

That kid likely had a headache too. Johnny Brunsen was an unwitting victim of Nolan’s dream sharing, and the recipient of a fresh mind wipe courtesy of Agent Downing.

He’s not an old coot! Nolan shouted. He’s… eccentric. That’s all.

Not everyone in the class liked Mr. Shupert as well as Nolan did, but even she knew eccentric was the word used to describe the old and senile when you wanted to be nice about it.

And he’s a great teacher! Nolan added, but Johnny had already turned around smugly, laughing with his buddies.

And he didn’t try to kill that woman, Nolan muttered, more to himself.

Don’t worry, Aeryn said, leaning closer. I like Mr. Shupert. Even if he is running down old ladies with his truck.

Um, thanks, Nolan said appreciatively, and he turned around to bury his head in his arms again.

A few seconds later Aeryn prodded him again. So that’s a no on the landscaping business? Cause my dad’s backyard garden is just out of control. He tried this raised bed thingy this year, but it is falling apart. Rotted wood. Broken bricks. And just dirt everywhere. I mean, everywhere it shouldn’t be. It could truly use some help. She paused for a breath. And don’t even get me started on the barberry bushes in the front yard.

Nolan turned back to her with a forced smile. I’m sorry. I’ve really got a headache and just kind of want to zone out for a while.

Aeryn feigned disappointment for a moment. Then she nodded at him and said, Oh, you poor thing. You hit your head this morning, didn’t you?

The boy frowned and bit his lip, at a loss for words once again.

Hope it’s not a concussion. Those can cause permanent damage.

It’s not a concussion, Nolan grumbled.

But how do you know?

Nolan sighed. Because I barely hit the dash. And I had the headache when I woke up. I’ve been getting them all week.

She scrunched her nose up a bit. Oh. All week, you say? Well, did you know chronic headaches can be caused by—

But Nolan purposely flashed her an annoyed look and turned back as Mr. Shupert tore into the day’s lesson with more gusto than usual. Chalk flew everywhere as the old teacher filled the board with equations. Where he had pulled the antique chalkboard on wheels from, she had no idea. Probably from a shed somewhere at the school, where old equipment went to die. Why use that portable nightmare when there was a wall of perfectly good whiteboards behind him?

He’s going too fast, Aeryn muttered as she attempted to scribble notes down. Hopefully she’d be long gone from this school before the next exam, but she needed to keep up appearances.

Mr. Shupert’s puff of hair bounced passionately as he filled up the entire pane, and he paused for less than a second before flipping it over to continue on the other side. Several students in the class groaned as they furiously tried to copy the disappearing mass of letters and numbers into their notes, Aeryn included. How was anyone supposed to learn this gibberish from