I dreamed

The headline is a physical weight, a slab of red earth pressed against the back of the throat. Konstas. Another ton. The words don’t make sense here, in the dark, sticky heat of the house, but they have texture. They taste like iron and crushed gravel.

I reach for the text file, the one that was never there. It sits on the desk, bound in wire. Inside, instead of credentials, there is a list of connections. Amygdala to VMPFC. The cable is exposed, the insulation stripped back. I try to trace the signal, but the wire is warm. It’s not sending an alarm. It’s sending a blueprint. The room shifts, the humid air thickening until it feels like standing in a river that isn’t water. The blueprint is a map of a car I don’t own, driving a road that doesn’t exist.

I turn the page. The next line is blank.