He is dreaming. He knows it is a dream; he has had the likes of it before. He hears the conch, the sound he will never forget after the island. After the day he brought it to his lips that first time. After he blew that cruel instrument. But how was it that the glistening piece was able to be reblown? Ralph himself had seen the conch being destroyed, and then…
No. This was a dream. Dreams are meant to be pleasant. He would follow that horrendous melody to its maker, determined to not stop until he found them. As he breaks into an urgent jog, he gasps to himself as he realizes his feet stripping of their socks and his shirt of its sleeves. Suddenly, a burning heat plunges into his body, and sweat dribbles down his forehead and spine. A familiar tingle enters his system as he feels the sand between his toes; he is back.