Fred Krueger collapsed to the floor, as if he'd been dropped from the sky. For a moment he stared up at the white ceiling, dazed. Where the hell was he?
When he pulled himself together, he grabbed his wide-brimmed fedora and stood up. But when he plopped the hat back onto his head, his fingers brushed something he'd not felt in many many years: hair. He had a whole head of hair again. Sure enough, when he glanced up, he saw his reflection in the tiny mirror on the wall in front of him. He was human again. Could this really be happening?
Slap! He smacked his freshly shaved cheeks; pulled at them; poked at them; until he was certain that he was indeed human.
Why the hell was this happening? He was a dream demon, meant to haunt dreams.
He stared long and hard into the tiny mirror. He had blue eyes again; slicked back and thinning blonde hair; a very thin figure. Instead of the heinous striped sweater, he was wearing a crisp, tight green sweater, black slacks, and his favorite brown leather fedora.
He slipped his hands into his pockets and swaggered out of the bathroom.
And stopped dead.
He was on a plane.
That was airborne.
For a moment, he just stood there. Why was he on a plane? But then he saw: a small, red-headed child was sleeping against her mama in the middle row, peaceful, yet gruesome. A child. That was why he was there.
He took a breath and decided that the best thing to do was to find a seat. There was nothing he could do eighty-some thousand feet in the air, as a human.