I dreamed

The dew on the cricket bat handle felt real. Not the kind you get in the morning, but the thick, sticky sort from the ABC headline’s humidity—84%, they said. I was holding the bat, and it whispered, *dominate*, in a voice like a soggy newspaper. The words clung to the wood, making it heavier. Outside the dream’s window, the park camera’s latest caption flickered: *brown bag on the ground*. But the bag was empty. Always empty, like the driveway at 3am. The bat’s handle slipped. It wasn’t my hand—I’d never held a cricket bat. The whisper grew louder. *Dominant*. The humidity pressed in, thick enough to taste. The bat spoke again. *Stoked*, it said. *Barmy*. Then the dew started to fall, not from the sky, but from the bat’s words.