This is the retelling of season 3b, through Stiles' eyes. I don't own anything you recognize - just the excursions into Stiles' mind. This will almost definitely not make sense if you haven't watched the episode tied to the chapter.

Anchors

I wake up, and my dad is dying.

We're trapped in the root cellar under the Nemeton, load-bearing beams crashing in around us.

Isaac's wolf-strength is gone – some fraction of my brain that isn't completely panicked and spinning and out of control realizes that the eclipse must have finally started – and I've got the bat jammed in so that Scott's mom won't get crushed, but my dad…

The beam's resting across his chest, pinioning him against the dirt floor, where a dark puddle of something is starting to spread out around his shoulders and oh God oh God oh God -

I wake up, and I'm in a locker.

This is not the first time this has happened. In sixth grade, Jackson and a few of his douchier friends realized that I was skinny enough to fit in our brand-new, middle-school lockers, and I spent a decent amount of time looking out through the slots in the metal door while Scott tried, largely unsuccessfully, to jimmy me free.

This doesn't feel like that.

This feels like being trapped, horribly vulnerable, and the panic – always here these days, always dwelling in the back of my mind, just waiting for me to drop my guard – perks up and starts to sharpen her claws against the insides of my lungs.

I slam my palm against the door, over and over until my skin splits open, but the door mercifully gives and I stumble out into the boys' locker room. It's dark and quiet and completely abandoned.

I take tentative steps out of the locker room, looking up and down the abandoned hallway, pushing the niggling thoughts – What am I doing here in the middle of the night? Where is everyone else? – down, down, down. Now is not the time to figure out how I got here. Now is the time to figure out how I stay alive.

The short hairs on the back of my neck tingle as I pad down the hall leading to Mr. Harris' old classroom. Something is tugging me into the room with a steady, irresistible pull just behind my heart, and I want to turn around and run – no, sprint – all the way home to see my dad and reassure myself that that other thing was just a dream, that he's okay, and I'm okay, and we'll all be okay – but then I step into the patch of moonlight spilling out through what used to be Mr. Harris' door and a leaf tumbles across my bare feet (Why aren't I wearing shoes?) as I take in the Nemeton, in all its forest-y glory, sitting smack dab in the middle of the classroom.

Cautious steps takes me closer, and I'm struck again by how freaking big the thing is. I could lie down across it, completely stretch out, and not touch a single piece of the rim. That pull in my chest drives me closer and has me reaching out a hand, but the panic in my head is gaining a voice and sinking her claws deeper into my lungs.

I lean in further, my fingers just above the mossy tufts that dot the stump's surface, unable to referee the battle between the pull of what's in front of me and the terror that's screaming, screaming at me to back up, get away, don't touch it don't touch it don't touch it and my blood is rushing through my ears and I watch tendrils shoot up out of the stump, wrap around my wrist, and slam my palm down onto the Nemeton and for a brief, blinding instant, the pain sears every particle of me into nothingness –

I wake up, and I'm in my bed.

My heart is pounding, and the remnants of panic are still clinging to me, but I'm in my bed. This is good. This is real.

"You okay?" A soft voice next to me asks. Lydia, still half asleep, levers herself upright and wraps a small hand around my arm. "Stiles?"

I heave a sigh, trying to marshal my heart and breathing back into normal rhythms. "Yeah, I was just dreaming." I take a beat, swallowing down more of the panic. "It was weird, it was like a dream within a dream."

"A nightmare?" Lydia confirms.

Another beat. No, I want to say. No, it wasn't a nightmare, it was real, just as real as this, just as real as you. But that's not the sort of thing you say to the insanely beautiful and brilliant woman in your bed, so I just sigh again and nod, interlacing my fingers with hers. "Yeah."

Her other hand rubs soothing little circles around my shoulder, and for a moment I let myself relax. The moonlight streaming in my window illuminates her hair and exposed skin in a way that's got to be magic, and my heart stutters just a bit. Lydia, the girl I've been hopelessly crushing on since kindergarten. Lydia, the girl who wouldn't even give me the time of day until all this crazy werewolf shit started. Lydia, who was always with the wrong guy – Jackson, Aiden…what is Lydia Martin doing in my bed?

And just like that, the panic is rearing its ugly head again.

"Wait a sec," I say, still working through the details in my head. "Lydia, what are you doing here?"

She gives me a brief, confused look, but both our heads snap to the door in response to the movement and almost imperceptible sound from just outside.

The door should not be open.

"Hang on," I mumble, untangling myself from the covers and shoving away confused thoughts of Lydia-freaking-Martin in my bed.

"Stiles, where are you going?" She asks, tightening her grip on my arm.

"I'm just going to close the door," I say. My voice is steady, but my hands are shaking – I have to close the door. The door should not be open.

"Just go back to sleep," she says, tugging on my shoulder.

"No, no, I should close it," I say, gently pushing her hands away and moving halfway off the bed.

"Don't worry about it," she whispers, and her hand on the back of my neck almost makes me forget. Her fingers in my hair quell the panic that's firmly entrenched in my chest, but the darkness outside the door is immense and somehow just so wrong and I manage to pull away from her.

"What if someone comes in?" I say, finally getting to my feet.

"Like who?"

I'm taking short steps across the floor, unable to tear my eyes away from the darkness just over the threshold.

"Just go back to sleep, Stiles."

I shake my head, my heartbeat rising, cold sweat breaking out over my skin. "No…but what if they get in?"

"What if who gets in?"

I don't know. Or maybe I know, but I can't say. Or I do know – I know who's out there, waiting in the darkness, and that door should not be open.

"Stiles?" Lydia says again, and this time the fear is plain in her voice. "Just leave it, please?"

I'm at the door, just inches away from touching the knob. All I have to do is push the door shut. That's all I have to do. This door should not be open, and I can just close it right now and this will all be over.

"Stiles?" Lydia repeats, her voice rising half an octave. "Stiles, come back to bed. "Stiles, please!"

My fingers tighten around the doorknob, and I'm dimly aware of Lydia shouting my name and please and Stiles, don't and then I throw the door open –

I wake up, and I'm in the forest.

More specifically, I'm in the Nemeton grove. Lights – the kind we use to light the lacrosse field for night games – blaze into existence in a circle around the dead tree, and I throw up my forearm to shield my eyes.

Again, that pull in my chest and the fear in my head go to war, and again, am I trapped in between. This is familiar, though, and I can remember seeing the Nemeton in Harris' classroom – but no, that had to be a dream, trees don't grow indoors – and that feels like lifetimes ago, anyway – but the lights around the edge of the clearing, those can't be real –

"Okay," I say to myself. "It's just a dream."

The dirt squishing up between my toes doesn't feel like a dream.

"This is just a dream," I say more firmly. "Get it out of your head, Stiles."

A cold breeze lifts the back of my shirt, sending icy fingers up and down my spine. Breathing is getting difficult.

"You're dreaming, all right? So wake up, Stiles!"

I can hear my heart beating in my ears. I slam a hand against the side of my head, pulling at my hair -

"Wake up, Stiles!"

The entire clearing starts vibrating, sending my panic into overdrive. Something is coming, I can feel it, and I have to get out of here, this isn't safe, the door shouldn't be open –

"WAKE UP!"

I wake up, and I'm in my bed.

Again.

I squint against the sunlight, trying to reconcile the sounds of birds chirping now against the buzzing of the lacrosse lights from that dream – Was that really the dream, Stiles? taunts a voice in my head – and my dad - my dad, crushed to death in the root cellar under the Nemeton – pokes his head into my room.

"Hey, time to get up, kiddo," he says. "Get your butt to school."

He leaves my bedroom door wide open, with not a hint of the darkness from before lingering behind.

My nasty little voice choruses, The door should not be open. You'll let them in.

"And you couldn't wake up?" Scott asks again, one step behind me as we walk toward school thirty minutes later. It's another bright, beautiful California day in Beacon Hills. You'd never know that werewolves and darachs and all sorts of nasty beasties run around here going bump in the night if you didn't happen to be best friends with one of said beasties.

"Nope, and it was beyond terrifying," I say. "Ever heard of sleep paralysis?"

"Uh, no, do I want do?"

"Well, have you ever had a dream where you want to wake up, but you feel like you can't move or talk?"

Scott squints for a minute. "Yeah, yeah, I've had that."

"That's because during REM sleep, your body is basically paralyzed," I explain, spouting off the results of the research I'd done this morning while brushing my teeth. "It's called muscle atonia. That way, if you start dreaming about running, you don't actually start running in your bed."

"That makes sense," Scott says, in that way that people agree with me when I'm starting to ramble about something that doesn't particularly apply to them.

Undeterred, I forge on. "Sometimes, your mind can wake up before your body does. So for a split second, you're actually aware that your body is paralyzed."

I jump up a few of the concrete steps while Scott, still squinting, contemplates. "And that's the terrifying part."

I nod. "Turns your dream into a nightmare. You can feel like you're falling, like you're being strangled, or in my case, like you're at the center of a grove of magical trees, where human sacrifices took place."

We push through the doors into school.

"You think it means something?" Scott asks.

I pause, not sure if I'm ready to let my most recent theory out into the world just yet. If there's anyone who needs to know, though, it's Scott – and Allison. "What if what we did that night…what if it's still affecting us?"

"Post-traumatic stress?"

I huff out a bit of air as we walk into our history class. "Something."

We settle in amongst all the nice, normal teenagers who don't have to deal with the fallout of dying to save their parents. Class is about to start, but I have one more thought lingering in my chest, one that's likely to burst out and kill me if I don't tell someone.

"Want to know what scares me the most?" I say, lowering my voice. Scott turns over his shoulder to look at me, all heartfelt, earnest concern. "I'm not even sure this is real."

I wake up, and I watch Scott get sliced in half by vengeful hunters.

I wake up, and Derek – out of his mind with grief over Boyd, Erica, and Cora dying during a battle with the Alpha pack – goes rabid and rips Isaac and Allison to shreds.

I wake up, and I'm in my bed.

I wake up, and I scream. My dad runs in and grabs me, just like he has every night this week, holding my arms down against my sides so I won't hurt myself, pressing a hand against my chest. The pressure just barely breaks through the overwhelming fear and my heart starts beating again after a few misfires.

I first notice it when I'm getting ready for school – my history textbook doesn't make sense. The title, which I know is Allies and Axis, reads Dalesi xis Anla. Before I have time to fully process and freak out over that, my dad is standing in the door, looking at me with concern.

"Hey," he says. "you all right?"

I look down at the book in my hands. Allies and Axis.

"You ready for school?" He prompts.

"Yeah," I say, choosing not to explain momentary dyslexia to a guy who's been doing really, really well at accepting the whole newly-introduced supernatural element of the world into his life. "Yeah, I'm good."

The look on my dad's face clearly says that he is not buying my bullshit.

"Dad, seriously, I'm fine," I protest, trying to sound more convincing. "It was just a nightmare."

Just another nightmare. Time for a subject change.

"What's that?" I ask, pointing to the box he's carrying.

"Oh, just, uh…files from the office," he says, shrugging carelessly.

"It says 'Sheriff's station, do not remove,'' I point out, gesturing to the bright yellow tape with those words on one end of the box.

"Well, yeah, unless you're the Sheriff, " he says, giving me a trademark Stilinski smirk-and-sass combo. I snort in derision.

"Get your butt to school, all right?" He orders, and I turn back to my backpack obediently, trying to ignore the feeling that he's said those words to me recently and halfway through the day I woke up trapped in Gerard Argent's lair with 100,000 volts of electricity frying my brain.

I wake up, and it's lunch time after fourth period. I see Scott stumbling down the stairs across the quad, and then he literally runs into me.

"Hey, hey," I say, putting my arms out to catch him. "You all right?"

He doesn't answer, but he doesn't need to. He's breathing hard and has that same wide-eyed, blown-pupils look I'm starting to associate with myself. "You don't look all right, Scott."

"I'm okay," he tries, but his voice is rougher than usual.

"No, you're not," I say. "It's happening to you, too. You're seeing things, aren't you?"

Scott's face clears. "How'd you know?"

Before I can formulate an answer – in this version of reality, I haven't explained my dream-within-a-dream-within-a-dream-within-a-freaking-nightmare situation to Scott yet – I hear footsteps behind me and turn to expand our little circle to include Lydia and Allison.

"Because it's happening to all three of you," Lydia says.

We pow-wow over lunch, sharing our continued tales of the weird the way we share pretzels and carrot sticks. Allison's got a half-decomposed aunt popping up at inopportune times, and Scott's Alpha form is out of control – or, at least, it looks to him like it is. We've all got heads full of terror, and Lydia is reveling in it.

"Well, well, look who's no longer the crazy one," Lydia says, leading us back into school after lunch.

"We are not crazy," Allison protests.

Lydia whirls on one precariously high heel and looks at each of us in turn as she calls out our issues. "Hallucinating. Sleep paralysis. Uncontrolled werewolf-ness. Yeah, you guys are fine."

There's really no comeback to that. Especially since I've got three days of uncompleted homework in my backpack – hard to answer questions when none of the letters are in the right order.

"We did die and come back to life," Scott admits after a second. "It's got to have some side effects, right?"

The bell rings.

"Keep an eye on each other," I say. "Lydia, stop enjoying this so much."

I wake up, and I'm a little kid, by myself, watching my mom die in the hospital.

I wake up, and my dad is getting his eyes seared out by Deucalion.

"Maybe we need a little more time to get back to normal," Scott says, leaning up against the locker next to mine a few days later.

"Yeah, try to not to forget," I say, struggling with my lock, "we hit the reset button on a supernatural beacon for supernatural creatures. There's a pretty good chance that things are never going back to normal." I try the lock a fourth time, but it's still sticking.

Scott tunes out, listening to something over my shoulder. I look closer at the padlock's face, and panic starts nudging against my lungs again when I realize that the numbers aren't numbers at all – just symbols.

Focus, Stiles, I tell myself. Just take a deep breath and focus. It always goes away after a minute or two. I heave out a giant breath, look up at the ceiling, shake the symbols out of my head, and when I look at the lock again, it's back to normal numbers. I'm about to sigh in relief when I look over at Scott and he looks back at me with glowing Alpha red. "Whoa, dude, your eyes."

"What about them?" Scott asks, oblivious.

"What about them – they're starting to glow!" I look up and down the hallway – there are way too many people around for this.

"What, you mean right now?"

"Yes, right now! Scott, stop! Stop it!"

"I can't," he says, starting to breath heavier. " I can't, I can't control it!"

I grab the back of his head and force him to look at the ground. "All right, just – keep your head down. Look down." I pull his head close to my shoulder and force him into the nearest empty classroom – probably got a few weird looks for that one, but it's better that Scott Alpha-ing out in the middle of a crowded hallway.

I pull the door shut behind us as Scott starts to growl and shake. I rush forward to help, but he wards me off with a hand. "No – stay back! Get away from me!"

"Scott, it's okay," I argue. It's not like this is the first time I've been around him in werewolf-mode, after all.

"I don't know what's going to happen!" He says, and there's such anxiety in his eyes that I'm rooted to my spot on the floor. "Get back!"

As I watch helplessly, he stumbles between two rows of chairs and starts digging his claws into the palms of his hands. Blood runs down his wrists onto the floor, and for a second it only seems to be getting worse – but then he collapses to his knees, fangs and claws retracting, and looks up at me. "Pain makes you human," he says between panting breaths.

"Scott, this isn't just in our heads," I say, sinking into a crouch. "This is real. And…it's starting to get bad for me, too. I'm not just having nightmares, I'm having these dreams where I have to literally scream myself awake. And…sometimes I'm not even sure if I'm ever actually waking up."

"What do you mean?" Scott asks, blood still dripping onto the floor.

I look down. "You know how you can tell if you're dreaming? You can't read in dreams. More and more the last few days, I've been having trouble reading. It's like I can't see the words, I can't put the letters in order."

Scott continues to stare at me. "Like, even now?"

I stand up slowly and look around the classroom. I end up staring at the chalkboard behind the teacher's desk, willing the letters into order, but it's hopeless – there are no real words, just jumbles of letters and broken phrases and more X's than any English sentence would ever contain. I shake my head. "I can't read a thing."

Scott slowly stands, and I grab him some tissues to wipe off the blood. "Maybe it's just dyslexia?" He offers. "You know, that learning disability."

I chuckle quietly. " How is this what our lives have come to? Hoping for a late-onset learning disability, because the alternative is that I'm legitimately going insane?"

"You're not crazy, Stiles," Scott says. He balls up the blood tissues and lobs them into the trashcan. "None of us are. We're just…recovering."

"Recovering from dying," I say. "I wonder why there's no manual for that?"

I wake up, and the Nemeton is on fire. It's on fire and there are thousands and thousand of fireflies streaming out of it, swarming, crawling all over me –

"You know, the last time we brought one of these to her grave, it was stolen the same day," I say, setting the elaborate flower arrangement down on my dad's desk. "One hundred bucks down the drain."

My dad doesn't immediately respond, so I peer over the top of the desk to where he's on his knees amidst piles of paper. "Hey Dad? What're you – what're you doing down there?"

He looks up, slightly guilty. "Working. But hey, if somebody wants flowers that badly…it's the gesture."

I walk around behind his desk. Every few months, we make it a point to go visit my mom's grave together, but my dad's clearly got more on his mind than just that. These aren't just any old papers – these are past case files. And more of those boxes with the yellow "Sheriff's office, Do not remove" tape on them. "Hey, Dad, what is all this?

"I've been looking over some old cases from a, uh, more illuminated perspective, if you know what I mean."

I pick up one of the files from his desk. "Strange sightings of bipedal lizard man sprinting across freeway."

"Kanima pile," my dad says, smacking his hand down on an existing stack. I obligingly toss the file where he's indicated, then squat in front of him. I've got a bad feeling about this.

"Dad, you're not going back through cases, seeing if any of them had to do with the supernatural…are you?"

My dad sighs. "I admit that the recent opening of my eyes to the great mysteries of the universe has got me reassessing. At least a hundred cases here where I could look at the details and I could ask myself, if I knew then what I know now…"

I swallow hard. "Right, but are you sure you want to go down that path?"

"Do I have a choice? There's one case in particular that I can't get out of my head."

He launches into the background of the case he's hung up on, the Tate family's car accident and disappearance of one of the daughters. I try to pay attention, but inside I'm spiraling downwards in shame. I'm definitely in the running for Worst Son of the Year these days – things were strained between us after I looped him into the supernatural party in the first place, but the added pressure of the FBI audit run by Scott's dad now has my dad second-guessing every decision he's made over the past few years.

He finishes explaining the Tate case, and I have to admit that the claw marks and full moon coincidence points toward a certain group of shapeshifters we know. Another piece of evidence catches my eye, too, although it's not directly related to the Tates.

"Hey, Dad, where are all these going?" I ask, gesturing widely to the boxes and files strewn across his office.

"Well yeah, yeah…we probably need to talk about that."

"Talk about what? Why do all these boxes say that they're going to the office of Special Agent McCall?"

"Now, Stiles, don't get worked up about this," he says. "You've known about the audit, and you have to know what they'd find. I've got years of unsolved cases stacked up against me here."

"Yeah, but they weren't your fault!" I protest. "I mean, here, look at this – you've got seven cases alone that were probably caused by Jackson as the kanima. You didn't know kanimas existed then!"

"And I'm sure I can explain that to the FBI in a way that won't make me sound completely insane," he says, rolling his eyes. "My days in this office are numbered, Stiles. And I'd just like…I'd like to go out on a good note. Maybe solve one or two of these, now that I really know what I'm up against."

I swallow hard, nearly having to fight back tears. Seriously, Worst Son in the History of the Universe.

I walk into economics just at the bell, and there's a new girl sitting in my usual seat.

"Hi," I say quietly. "I usually sit there."

The girl looks up and me and starts motioning with her hands – it takes a second to kick in that she's using sign language. "Okay, no problem," I say, giving her a small grin to get the point across. "It's all yours."

I slide into an empty desk a few rows back, flipping through the text to last night's reading. A few pages in, I notice that I'm the only one making any sound, and in no time my heart rate is rising again. Everyone else is sitting perfectly still, staring at Coach Finstock at the front of the room.

"Hey, Coach," I say, oddly relieved to see him. "Thought I was in the wrong class for a sec."

In response, Coach holds up his hands and signs something back at me.

"Uh, okay," I stutter. "I don't actually know sign language - actually, I didn't even know that you knew sign language or that that was even an elective here… well, this has been good, I'm going to head out."

I gather up my stuff and head for the door. Coach's eyes follow me, making calm yet desperate eye contact, as if he's trying to will me to understand whatever he's signing. By the time I get to the door, the entire class is staring at me and repeating the same series of signs, getting faster and more frantic and there's a buzzing in my ears and the room is starting to spin –

I wake up, and Coach's whistle is blaring.

"STILINSKI!" He shouts. "I asked you a question."

"Uh…sorry, Coach, what was it?" My head is killing me, but this feels right. Getting yelled at by Coach – this is normal.

Coach smiles. "It was, 'Stilinski, are you paying attention back there?''

"Oh. Well…I am now?"

"Stilinski, stop reminding me why I drink. Every. Night. Does anyone else want to answer the question on the board?"

I shake my head again, trying to clear out the buzzing. One seat over, Scott is staring at me with such worry all over his crooked-jaw face that I feel compelled to say, "I'm all right, I just fell asleep for a sec."

Scott's face doesn't change. "Dude. You weren't asleep." He flicks his eyes toward my notebook, and when I look down, my handwriting has spelled out the phrase "WAKE UP."

My handwriting has spelled out the phrase "WAKE UP" dozens and dozens of times.

"Okay," Scott says after school, when we're sitting at a table with Isaac, Allison, and Lydia, "so what happens to a person who has a near-death experience and comes out of it seeing things?"

"And is unable to tell what's real or not," I add.

"And is being haunted by visions of dead relatives," Allison contributes.

"They're locked up because they're insane," Isaac states.

"Ha," I say drily. "Can you at least try to be helpful? Please?"

"For half my childhood, I was locked in a freezer, so being helpful is kind of a new thing for me."

"Okay, you're still milking that?" I retort, aware that I'm crossing a line by mocking Isaac's childhood trauma, but I'm just so goddamn tired and irritable –

"Hi," says a new, perky voice from the end of our table. It's that new girl, the history teacher's daughter – Karen? Katie?

"Kira," Scott says confidently, and our entire table turns to look at him. He's only got eyes for the new girl, though, and I know that look – this is Allison all over again.

Kira explains that she overheard part of our talk and thinks we were describing bardo, the in-between state from Tibetan Buddhism, pretty accurately. Apparently, bardo's full of hallucinations, and visits from deities.

"Demons!" I repeat. "Why not?"

"Hold on," Allison interrupts my sarcasm. "If there are different progressive states, then what's the last one?"

"Death," Kira says matter-of-factly. "You die."

You'd really think that hearing about your impending doom would start to feel pretty underwhelming by this point, out of sheer repetition – but that's apparently not the case. I've actually literally died once already this semester. Isn't that enough?

I wake up, and there are three red-eyed, forked-tongued demons standing around me, slicing of pieces of my skin with razor-sharp knives.

Later, Scott and I head to the animal clinic to see what Dr. Deaton might know about our side effects. I'm not overly optimistic, but Deaton's got a weirdly varied knowledge base and I'm not one to abandon a potential life raft. I give a brief rundown of my past week's attempt at sleep, and end up describing the incident from a few days ago – daydreaming a class full of aggressive sign-ers while apparently awake and scribbling WAKE UP to myself over and over.

"Sounds like your subconscious is trying to communicate with you," Deaton says after I'm done explaining.

"Well, how do I tell my subconscious to use a language that I actually know?"

"Do you remember what the sign language looked like?" Deaton asks. "The placement and the movement of the hands?"

"You know sign language?" Scott asks, clearly surprised.

"I know a little," Deaton says. "Give it a shot."

I hold up my hands and stumble through the motions that dream-Coach and the dream-classmates were making. There are only three that I can remember, but that seems to be enough.

"That's it?" Deaton asks, confusion on his face. "When is a door not a door."

"When is a door not a door?" I repeat, letting scorn creep into my voice.

"When it's ajar," Scott says quietly, like he's discovered the truest secret of the universe.

'You're kidding me. A riddle? My subconscious wants to tell me a riddle?" I demand.

"Not necessarily," Deaton interjects. "When the three of you went underwater, you crossed to a kind of superconsciousness. You essentially opened a door in your minds. "

"Okay, so what does that mean?" Scott asked. "The door's still open?"

" Ajar," Deaton repeats mysteriously – or he's just trying to be mysterious. I'm never sure with that guy.

"A door…into our minds," I say.

"I did tell you it was risky," Deaton cautions.

"What do we do about it?" Scott asks.

"That's…" Deaton hedges. "That's difficult to answer.

"Oh, wait a sec, I know that look," I say, waving a finger accusingly. "That's the we-know-exactly-what's-wrong-with-you-and-we-have-no-idea-how-to-fix-it look."

"One thing I do know is that having an opening like that into your mind? It's not good. You each need to close that door. And you need to do it as soon as possible."

I wake up, and Scott bursts into my bedroom with a flashlight, saying that we're going to go into the woods and find the lost Tate daughter's body.

I wake up, and Jackson is back as the kanima, and he eats Lydia in front of me.

I wake up, and I'm in my bed, screaming, my dad's arms around me.

I wake up.

At least

I think

I do.