The Tin Box Read Online Free PDF

dream activity was necessary for a healthy brain, but if he could have taken a pill to keep his slumbers dream-free, he would have. He wasn’t especially prone to nightmares. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d experienced anything worse than mild anxiety in his sleep. No, what bothered him was his lack of control over his mind’s nighttime activities. As soon as REM hit, his subconscious took him in all sorts of directions he’d rather not go.
    Tonight, for instance, while the fans whirred and the hospital creaked and groaned, William found himself on a stage in a library so vast that no walls were visible, only row after row of books. Colby Anderson was with him on the stage, managing to look very masculine despite wearing a sequined pink dress that would have put the most outrageous disco diva to shame. A hidden pair of speakers was blaring “It’s Raining Men” at top volume, and Colby was gyrating toward William, spinning and leaping and thrusting his hips obscenely. “Come on, Billy-boy,” he said, holding out a hand. “Come dance with me. You know you wanna.”
    “No,” said William. But he didn’t sound very sure of himself. “I have to study.”
    “You’ve been studying your whole life. Now it’s time for the test.”
    And suddenly the area in front of the stage was packed with people. Fred Ochoa and Jan Merrick were there. So were all the teachers and professors William had known throughout the years. Even Mrs. Castiglione from first grade was there in her smiley-face painting smock and her neon-colored sneakers, the Mr. Math Shark puppet on one hand. Lisa was there with a group of her friends. That lady from the general store was there in her lavender sweats. A couple of kids stood at her side looking forlorn. Pastor Reynolds stood nearby, eyes narrowed as he stared at William. And William’s parents were there too, his father with his jaw set grimly, his mother looking weepy.
    And naturally William was nearly naked, standing onstage in his underwear. He didn’t even have the dignity of boxer shorts. Instead, he realized with horror, he had on a gold lamé G-string that showed off his scrawny frame and emphasized the bulge at his crotch.
    “This isn’t my G-string! I was wearing a jacket and tie!” he yelled to the crowd. He didn’t know if they could hear him over the music.
    Colby sashayed closer. “It’s time to dance.”
    “No!”
    And just then a tram silently rolled to a stop beside the stage. It was filled with people, but the windows were frosted so he couldn’t see who they were. Colby made a grab for him. William leapt back, turned, and ran for the tram. But he tripped over something near the edge, and then he was falling, falling….
    He woke with a jerk, sticky with sweat. He grumbled as he freed himself from the twisted sheets, then nearly tumbled off the mattress when he tried to stand. With only the moonlight to see by, he attempted to smooth the bedding and rearrange the pillows to his liking. He lay back down and squeezed his eyes shut. He refused to think about the damn dream. It was nothing. Neuron bursts that had no meaning. Freud’s crap about defense mechanisms and symbolism, about trains and phallic symbols was the product of an overheated Victorian imagination, completely unsubstantiated by empirical proof. William was just tired and stressed and a little discomfited by the move, and that was all.
    He tossed and turned a bit, trying not to disturb the sheets too much, and the sharp details of the dream began to soften and fade. By morning he’d probably have forgotten it entirely. But what he couldn’t push out of his consciousness was how large the bed was, and how small and alone he felt huddled in its center.
     
     
    T HE birds were noisy this morning. He imagined them gathered outside his window like something from a Disney cartoon, demanding that he get up and do his chores. But he did not feel remotely like Cinderella or Snow White as he