Part One: She's Gone to the Waters

The view from her penthouse was beautiful. Tracy stood in the dim light of her apartment, staring out over the city as it burned beneath her. She was struck, as she often was, by the utter simplicity of fire, powerful, destructive, yet remarkably uncomplicated She felt she could reach out beyond the glass, beyond the distance, and press her hand into the flames. It seemed so close to her as she watched the city go up in an apocalyptic inferno.

A voice behind her cried out in pain, and she turned casually to see who it was.

Daddy was on the floor, crawling toward a bottle of heart medication. Tracy smiled at him, her heart filling with love. Daddy was smart. Daddy was strong.

Help me, he cried. Tracy, please help me.

She breathed out a contented sigh. All she had to do was hand him the pills, and everything would be fine. They could watch the city burn together, just like they always had. She started to walk toward him and found she could not move.

Her smile faded.

Tracy, honey, please. It hurts. Be a good girl. Get Daddy his pills….

She struggled now as the heat from the city began to filter through the windows. She turned, frightened, as the fire raged just outside her window. Daddy was on the floor. Daddy was dying.

If she smashed through the window, she could fly down before the flames reached the apartment. She could be safe.

But Daddy would die without his medication. She cried out in frustration, a primal scream of rage as her feet refused to run, as her arms refused to flail. Her heart alone retained the ability to move as it pounded manically against her rib cage.

Tracy, how could you? How could you do this to your own father?

I'm trying, Daddy. I can't move. I'm trying.

The flames were getting closer. She could feel her skin beginning to blister. It was too late. It was too late. She screamed as the windows exploded inward and flames engulfed them both. /

February 3, 2004

Seattle, Washington

Tracy Walker sat bolt upright in bed, her body drenched in sweat. The satin nightgown she wore clung to her skin, and her hair was limp and damp. She turned to look at the alarm clock. Three in the morning…

"Damn," she gasped as she struggled to calm her breathing. The images slowly began to fade from her mind, and she let herself fall back on the hot fabric of her pillow. She counted to ten and backwards again. She focused on her center and tried to picture her inner core, bright and neon blue, spherical with the dents of a thousand lifetimes covering every inch of its surface. She tried every stupid New Age trick she could imagine to distance the now from the then, to separate her waking from her dreaming.

Finally, she did what she should have done in the first place. She picked up the phone and dialed. "Annabeth, I'm sorry."

The voice on the other end was accented and very groggy. "Tracy? What time is it?"

"I want a drink. Don't kill me."

"I'm not going to kill you. Oh, dear lord. It's three in the morning."

"I'm sorry." Tracy drew in a deep breath. "I shouldn't have called you--"

"Another dream?"

"Yeah." Tracy closed her eyes. She could hear Annabeth on the other end struggling to control the sixty-three years of New Zealand toughness that always seemed to be pushing at the seams of her compact frame. She could almost feel her sponsor trying to retain her serenity, to be supportive when her natural tendency was to be a straight-forward kick in the pants. "I'm sorry," Tracy whispered into the receiver. She didn't want to call her, not at this time, never actually. Even after all these years, all this therapy, and six years of sobriety, Tracy hated asking for help. She never quite got over the feeling that it was a weakness, a character flaw for lesser people.

"Well, I'm up now, pet. Stop kicking yourself for calling me, and tell me about the nightmare."

"I'm better now. I just needed to hear your voice." Tracy was already beginning to feel the embarrassment that went along with these late night calls, the shame of rushing to her friend's number, hoping for some form of telephonic absolution to get her through another night.

"Cut the crap, Ms. Walker, and tell me about the dream."

She should have known better. Annabeth wasn't going to back down, no more than Tracy backed down when Annabeth's own sobriety was faltering. Tracy breathed in a long, loud sigh to let her know she was only doing this to placate the older woman. "I was standing at the window of my apartment." She left out the part about it being her apartment from twenty years ago. "I was looking out over the city." She left out the part about the city not being Seattle. "And it was on fire. I was oddly calm, like a city in flames was the most natural thing in the world." She left out the part about her father, on the floor, begging for his medication. She left out the part about not being able to help him as she waxed eloquent on the flames, the color of the night sky, the heat as the fire engulfed her, the way her skin felt as it burned hot and fast.

She never was good at the whole truth thing. It made for a lousy AA experience, but Tracy was okay with that. Her sobriety was earned through force of will, not uttering the Serenity Prayer and playing around with Steps. She went to the meetings to network, and to see Annabeth. At least, that's what she told herself.

"And that's everything?" Annabeth's voice revealed quite clearly that she knew Tracy was holding back pertinent details, the same way she knew Tracy did not truly reveal herself at meetings. There was a subtle, unspoken agreement between them to let Tracy have her wall and her half-truths, as long as they both were aware of their existence and as long as there was a hope that, someday, Tracy would be brave enough to tell the whole story. "That's all there is?"

"Pretty much," Tracy lied.

"Well, fire in a dream can be a symbol of transformation, or psychic clarification."

"I don't feel transformed or clarified," Tracy grumbled. Her pillow was hot, and she turned it over to try to find the cool side. "I feel wide awake and cranky and annoyed."

"Well, that makes two of us, dear. Have you just considered that maybe you're having these dreams because of the stress from the IPO? I mean, you've been working obscene hours with almost no downtime in order to get this thing off the ground."

"I'm not worried about that."

"Of course you are. Just because your company is doing well doesn't mean you aren't worried. Going public is a huge step. Naturally, it would make sense--"

"It's not about the damn company." Tracy groaned immediately after the words came out of her mouth. "I'm okay, Annabeth, I really am. Chelsea has been doing most of the work anyway. All I do is herd investors into prospectus meetings and look pretty for the board."

She heard a low harrumph on the other end of the line. "Well, I very much doubt that's all you do, Tracy Walker. But you're the business woman, not me."

"I'm sorry," she said for the fourth time that night. Part of her wanted to tell her the truth and let the chips fall where they may. But she couldn't, so she just let Annabeth think what she needed to think. "I have an investors' meeting at ten-thirty," she lied. "It's making me crazy."

"Tracy, listen to me. You've worked over twenty years building this company up from nothing. You've endured hardship, setbacks, Republican governments…and all through it, you've never given up your dream. In just a few weeks, Freedom Energies is going to go public. You're about to have everything you've ever wanted." There was a short pause. "It's bound to be frightening, standing on the verge of your own dreams coming true."

"I don't believe in dreams come true," Tracy whispered into the phone.

"I know," Annabeth said. "Maybe your dreams are trying to tell you that you should start believing."

"I don't want the dreams I have to come true," she said in a mocking tone.

"Then aren't we lucky they won't?" There was a slightly derisive snort from the other end of the line. "Listen, love, maybe if you start believing in your dreams again, your dreams will start believing in you."

"Oh, did you really just spout that at me?" She laughed gently. It was always a sign that Annabeth was backing off when she started quoting New Age platitudes. "What's next? Are we going to focus on my chi? Align my charkas?"

"Child, your charkas would need a crowbar and twenty shamans to align. What we are going to focus on is your fear, and your belief that you don't deserve this success."

"Ouch," she remarked. Damn that Annabeth! She was so close to escaping without being nailed.

"Truth hurts, pumpkin," Annabeth said in that knowing tone she got when she knew she'd scored a direct hit. "Now, here's a plan, Trace. You figure out why you don't think you deserve success, and maybe the nightmares will stop."

Tracy sighed, shutting her eyes. "Thank you, Dr. Phil," she murmured into the phone as she stifled a yawn. "I'll read your book and get back to you in the morning."

"I suppose it would be cruel to tell you to get some sleep?" Annabeth's voice was kind, though, and Tracy had to smile. There was a reason this woman had one of the only two numbers on her speed dial.

"Brutal and vicious," she agreed. "You coming to the party tomorrow night?"

"Wouldn't miss it. I have a very posh fluttery number to drape over my cracked old bones."

"Good." Tracy stretched, pushing down with her feet until they actually stuck out from under the other end of her covers. "Thank you for answering the phone, Annabeth."

"I always answer the phone. Do you still want to take a drink?"

Tracy shook her head. "No, not now. I'm going to be okay, I think," she said.

"You're going to be okay, I know," Annabeth corrected. "I love you, child. Will you be okay to sleep?"

"Yeah. I ought to get some rest, if I'm going to present my best face for my little group of potential stockholders."

"Dream well, my lovely."

And with that, the call was disconnected, and Tracy Walker was once again alone with her thoughts, and the uncanny feeling that something was about to go horribly wrong.

Coming in Chapter Two: No One is an Island