He was so close – a fraction of an inch away. His fingers were already tingling in anticipation, ghost-like sensations brushing across them, this tips of the jagged mountains, the tops of those black trees. A fraction of an inch more and he'd be dipping them into that roiling ocean….

He experienced the sudden twist of vertigo, the room spinning like the morning after too much cheap tequila, as though gravity had corrected itself before he'd fallen to the ceiling, and then Carlos awoke, his cheek pressed against something hard and cold and slick.

He was drenched in a cold sweat, and draped across the floor. His legs were tangled in the sheets, which were pulled taught where they'd been torn from the bed. His arm stretched out in front of him, his fingers touching nothing but the worn surface of the hardwood floor. The dark titan was gone.

He curled in on himself, as tightly as he could, and wept.

His phone rang, and he ignored it.

A few minutes later, it rang again, and this time he was able to uncurl himself, to reach out and answer it with a shaky hand.

"Hello?" His voice sounded thick with tears.

"Oh. Carlos." He felt another surge of vertigo, and raised his hand to his mouth, feeling as if he was going to be sick. The voice from the dream – or from the radio? From something….

"Carlos, it's Cecil." Oh, that's right.

"Hi." He said through his fingers, which were still shaking against his lips.

"I'm so sorry but, um, I wanted to check…" He sounded disoriented, so unlike he had in the dream, on the radio. Carlos wondered how he'd thought it was the same voice. The same man, maybe, but a different voice. "I just thought – ugh, sorry, the dream. Did you have the dream?"

"Yes." He answered, not bothering to clarify which dream. It didn't seem like he needed to.

"Yes, yes I thought you would." He paused. "We all did, of course, since it's December 15th , but you're still kind of new, so I wondered… Are you alright? Do you need somebody to drive you to the hospital? Sometimes people…the first time, you know, it doesn't always….sit well."

Carlos is having trouble forming sentences.

"I shouldn't have called," Cecil continues, " I know, it's so late…or early… but I wanted to make sure you were alright."

"I…" he started, then took a deep breath and started again. "I think …I think I'm alright." He finished. "I feel sick." He added.

"Yes, okaaay, that's actually good!" Cecil sounded relieved. "Yes, you may throw up later. That's ok, as long as it's not black, or teal, you're ok. If you start slipping back though, if you see it again, you need to get to the hospital."

"Okay, thanks."

"Sure." Cecil says, and he's talking more quickly now, starting to sound a bit more like himself. "Geeze, I'm really sorry, it's so late, I shouldn't have called. I'm glad you're alright though. If you need anything, don't hesitate to call, here or at the radio station – I'm always around. But anyway….I guess I'll let you go…"

"Wait." Carlos said. He was still trying to formulate thoughts, and his mind was thick and hazy and stupid, but he needed to ask something.

"Hmm?"

"You were narrating it."

"Yes." He said, more softly, "I do, every year."

"But in the dream, do you…"

There was a pause.

"I move the crates, too." He said, a bit sadly, and there was something resolute in his voice. "Just like everyone else."

"Oh." Carlos said. "Huh."

"Was that all?"

"Yeah."

"Alright." Cecil said, and his voice was gentle, "Goodnight, Carlos. Or Good Morning, I suppose."

"Good night." Said Carlos, but perhaps it was Good Morning. The sun wasn't up yet, hadn't even begun to tint the blackness of the void, but he stood, stretching and stumbling downstairs to make coffee. He wouldn't be going back to sleep tonight. He didn't think anyone else in town would, either*.

...

*He was wrong. Cecil went back to sleep. So did Old Woman Josie. Sleep is important – you have to be well rested when you are living in a city that's constantly trying to kill you.