If there is any mortal thing in this cruel world that I hate more than spiders, it's flying. Airplanes are my second worst enemy—beside spiders, mark you. And, so, for the entire flight to Cairo airport, I was clutching the armrests of the seats. Indiana was sitting next to me, calmly reading a magazine, might I add. About an hour into the flight he noticed my…condition. I think he forced back a snicker, but I could've been mistaken.

"Not used to flying, sweetheart?" he asked in the most babying tone. I almost found it insulting.

"Since when am I your…sweetheart?" I retorted, but the plane shook slightly and made me jump. "Is it that obvious?"

"You're knuckles are turning white," he said, pointing to my hands that still held the armrests with a death-grip. Now that I though about it, my hands were starting to hurt at this point. "Here, just ease up your grip. Relax." He gently pulled my hands from their former attachment.

"How can I relax?" I muttered, my hands searching for a new occupation. I grabbed his magazine and starting rolling it tightly. "Forgive me if I like to keep my feet on the ground. Just think, if any little thing goes wrong, it could mean the end of every person on this plane. I don't know about you, but I'm not prepared to die, just yet. I just started college."

"You're not gonna die, Al," he cooed, obviously trying to be comforting, "Just stand up and walk around for a bit. It works sometimes."

"Sometimes?" I repeated, "That's really reassuring." My hands were shaking when he wrenched his magazine from my grip. He had to help me get my seatbelt unfastened. I think it's a plan to scare me because as soon as I stood up we hit turbulence or something. Fell forward onto Indy, hoping to God my life wasn't ending. I really hate airplanes.

"Calm down, Al," he said. Now I had my arms around his neck. He was in my merciless, fear-induced death-grip. "Stand up and take a few steps. If you can't manage that than you're a lost cause."

"I would think you—of all people—would believe in miracles," I said sarcastically. I slowly released him and stood. No more turbulence; it had ended as soon as it began, I supposed. I took three steps and then rushed back to my seat, buckling my seatbelt. "There's your 'few steps.'"

He smiled and shook his head, as if to say I was hopeless. "It's a long trip to go," he warned, "Why don't you try to get some sleep?"

That was easy for him to say. I tried to relax, to think of good things. The past year of college before people started bothering me with these like "have I slept with the professor." Such matters, I never did bring to his attention. Had I tried, I would've been blushing profusely. That was the last thing I needed at the time. I thought of a king cobra gracefully making it's way through my mind's eye. I always found comfort in snakes, especially ones with such a prominent attitude. They were quite beautiful creatures. I think it was about then that I slipped off to sleep.

My Dream…

It was cold, damp and the only sound besides my own breathing was the constant dripping of water at regular intervals. I moved, heard the rattle of chains, and knew that—wherever I was—I wasn't there for tea and cookies. That sounded so good right then. Something about my situation told me I hadn't eaten in a while. I looked around and saw a very rotten, stone cell. The walls were moss-covered; the chains that bound my wrists and ankles to the wall were covered with rust to the point where it surprised me they were still able to hold anything there. My head seemed to be spinning, and the room spun with it. Then everything started to melt away.

With the sudden shine of the desert sun and the smell of sand and water, I knew I was now near the Nile. This was utterly confusing. Then there was music and I concluded that I had officially lost my mind for what I saw next. I single-file line of hippopotami in ballet shoes and pink tutus came dancing by in a choreographed, flowing stream of spins and dips. It was all very cute. That is, until the line was interrupted by a matching, dancing, giant spider!

"Holy sweet mother of God," I muttered under my breath. This would've been an amusing sight, were it not for my fear of spiders. I turned tail and ran, only to find that I was running in circles. The music pounding in my ears. The dancers not letting me escape. I felt spider legs poke into my back. I screamed and kicked out at the spider to get it away.

Not dreaming anymore…

I think that the images faded slowly when I felt human hands grip my wrists. Then my name being called. Things turned black and I could only hear. "Al," came a voice, "Al?" A sigh came then. "Alexandria Jewel Markus." My eyes shot open then and I saw Indy standing over me, holding my wrists.

I glared up at him for using my full name. "Henry Jones Jr." I said, emphasis on the Jr.

"Now, you've gone a bit too far," he said, "You had a nightmare or something. You were thrashing in your sleep." I noticed he was still holding onto my wrists.

I smirked. "I like the contact," I teased, "but I need the use of my hands to sock you." I didn't mean it, but hell, it was funny to see the look it put on his face.

It was confusion mixed with some deep thoughts of anger. Kind of like saying "oh really?" except meaner than that. Anyway, he let go of me and muttered something about the plane having landed already.

"Good," I said, getting, "Landing and take off are my worst moments. Jones, on the way back, let's take a boat?"

"My thoughts exactly," he said, "The last thing I need it you strangling me in your grip. I swear, it's like you're holding onto life itself."

Space in time…dun dun duh!

Just the thought of spiders makes me nauseous. I can't stand to be in the same room as a spider. Hell, I can't stand to be in the same building as a brown recluse. I wonder if this will affect my future life, if I have one. There actually aren't as many spiders in Egypt—which is half the reason I lived there. I was relived when I saw the welcoming front of the Museum/Library that I used to live/work in as the taxi approached. When the car stopped in front of it, however, I got an unpleasant surprise.

"Closed?" I nearly shouted, "Why is it closed down?"

The taxi driver was in a hurry to answer me. "The owner, the curator, he died," the man said in Arabic, "He was murdered. Most likely work of the Nazis. Fare, please." He held out his hand expectantly.

Indy tossed him a little extra than what they were charged and the driver drove off. I didn't much notice this because the news was still sinking in. Dead? My father that wasn't my father…he was dead?