"Logistics ready. One hour — start stocking!" the voice in the headset barked.
"Cart three to aisle five. Move!" I heard the speaker count orders and prices in a rhythm I knew by heart.
"Spend the credits on canned meat. No, canned fruit—people like fruit after moon soup," I told the phantom cashier.
"Add batteries. Generators on sale. Two per household. Finalize cart," the voice said.
"Put the children’s aspirin in the basket. And—wait—extra bandages. Always bandages."
I reached for something that wasn't there, fingers closing on empty air. The tiled floor of the supermarket vanished. My palms met clay.
"Journey, get up. You're late," Everett's voice cut through, low and urgent.
I sat bolt upright on the thin mat, the last echo of the checkout voice still in my ears. The supermarket voices were gone. The villa and the storeroom were still possible in my head. The items I had spent dream-money on felt real.
"Late for what?" I muttered, rubbing my temple. My mouth tasted like canned orange syrup.
"School? Work? You?" Everett's tone softened. "Just get your jacket."
"Give me five minutes," I lied. The dream had left a list in my head—bread loaves, batteries, bandages, a small box labeled 'antibiotics'—and I needed to check if it was just a brain trick.
Everett's hand found my shoulder. "No more sleeping with your eyes open. Not after last month's trouble."
I looked at him. Everett's
