CHAPTER SEVEN

The sky was a canvas of twilight hues, colors muted as if the world was holding its breath. Jenna watched as buses shot by on either side of the highway, blurred streaks of color and motion. Yet no gust of wind followed their passage, no thunder of engines broke the stillness; they moved in silence, like specters racing toward oblivion.

“Waiting for the bus?” The question sliced through the quiet, startling Jenna more than the sound of a voice should.

Her gaze shifted from the silent, speeding buses to the young man standing beside her. A buzz cut crowned his head, a distinct contrast to a well-trimmed red beard that seemed almost aflame against his pale skin. He carried a green duffel bag slung over one shoulder and a fishing rod in a case in the crook of his arm.

“No,” Jenna said, finally finding her voice. “I’m not waiting for a bus.”

The man looked at her with curiosity, his brows knitted together beneath the brim of his cap. “What are you doing at a bus stop, then?”

She looked around. Yes, she realized for the first time, she was standing at the bus waiting area outside a familiar truck stop called Hank’s Derby. She searched for an answer to his question, but her memory of why she was here seemed as fleeting as the signs on the buses that blurred past.

“I… don’t know,” she confessed, feeling uncertain.

“Sure you do,” the man said.

In that instant, clarity pierced the fog of Jenna’s mind, sharp and unwelcome. The realization dawned on her: the impossible silence, the eerie stillness of the scene before her—they were all constructs of her own subconscious. Jenna knew she was experiencing a dream.

When she became lucid like this, she had choices, up to a point. She could walk away; she could find a mirror to see how her dream self looked; maybe she could even get on a bus to see where it went. But right now, she knew she needed to listen to whatever this man had to say, because the only voices that spoke to her in this world were those of the dead. Although they were seldom easy to understand, their hints from the beyond were important. They often offered her clues that no sheriff could find with just a badge and a gun.

With that perception, her dream senses sharpened, and the details of the man standing beside her crystallized into focus. She could see the fine grains of stubble on his cheeks, the frayed edges of his duffel bag, and the subtle tension in his posture.

“Obviously, you’re here because there’s something you’re supposed to find out,” he stated confidently.

“All right then,” Jenna said as she took a deep breath and let the dream’s reality take over. As soon as she had spoken, a single bus materialized from the blur of motion on the highway, its hulking form grinding to a halt in front of them. The door swung open with a mechanical sigh, revealing an empty vehicle awaiting a passenger. The man at Jenna’s side stared at the idling bus and muttered, “I need to get on this one.”

“Are you leaving?” she asked.

“Yes, I am,” he said firmly. But there was no movement toward the open door, no shift in his stance; he remained anchored to the spot beside her.

“Why don’t you get on the bus then?” Jenna suggested.

The man’s gaze lingered on the bus, a mix of longing and frustration clouding his features. “I don’t know,” he admitted, helplessness creeping into his voice. “I’m trying, but I just can’t seem to do it.”

With a mechanical groan, the door of the bus clamped shut, severing any possibility of passage for the man whose hand bore the inked image of a pair of angelic wings. Jenna watched as the vehicle pulled away from Hank’s Derby. The man stood stationary, as if his feet were rooted to the cracked pavement, his eyes trailing the retreating bus with a mixture of longing and defeat. The other buses resumed their silent ballet, zooming past in both directions, blurs of motion that seemed disconnected from any reality she understood.

“Can’t you see? There’s no point,” the man said, his voice brittle as dry leaves. His eyes met hers, and Jenna saw the desolation within them, a chasm so deep it threatened to swallow him whole. “No one can help me now. But someone else is in terrible danger. And there isn’t much time.”

She wasn’t surprised by the odd situation or by the lack of explanation. Part of her understood that the dream might never yield the straightforward responses she hoped for. Dreams were landscapes of symbols and metaphors, more mysterious than most of the leads she uncovered in waking life. But in both waking and dreaming life, Jenna had become skilled at extracting information from silences, from the things left unsaid.

The young man turned slightly, casting a glance over his shoulder, his expression forlorn. “Maybe Sheriff Frank can help you.”

That startled her for a moment. She caught the expectation in his words, the belief that Frank Doyle—her predecessor—would have answers or guidance for this man in her dream. She was sure she had never met this young man in real life, and yet he was naming the man who had taught her most of what she knew about enforcing the law and keeping the peace in a small town.

“How do you know Frank Doyle?” she asked him. “What do you think he could do to help?”

But the man didn’t answer. His expression contorted, a sudden rawness apparent in his features. “Thirsty,” he croaked, voice sandpaper rough. The simple declaration sounded oppressive, filling Jenna’s senses with the acrid tang of dust and the parched crackle of drought-withered leaves.

“Thirsty,” he repeated, his throat working visibly as he swallowed. “But maybe Sheriff Frank can get me a drink.”

“Water,” she echoed thoughtfully, aware that in this place, the simplest things could hold profound significance. Was water a clue, a sign, or merely a stray detail in her subconscious? Was the thirst a fact or a symbol?

“Perhaps,” Jenna mused aloud, her eyes reflecting the enigma before her, “we should find this water together.”

“I can’t think,” the man beside her muttered, desperation in his voice. “That noise is driving me crazy. Can’t you stop it for me?”

Jenna frowned, searching the immediate vicinity for any sign of disturbance. “What noise?” she asked, her voice sounding strangely hollow in the stillness.

“Can’t you hear it too?” There was a pleading note in his question, one that resonated with an urgency she couldn’t ignore. She focused, tuning into the spectrum of silence, and then—there it was. A loud ticking, rhythmic and relentless, like the pulse of an unseen clock, echoing through the space around them.

“You hear it now, don’t you?” the man asked. “That’s what it’s all about.” His eyes, hollows of despair, held hers with an intensity that was almost overpowering. “Time,” he added, “it’s all about time. Five years. It’s always five years.”

He reached out toward her as if seeking help. The movement drew her attention back to his hand where ink bloomed against his skin—a tattoo, intricate and dark. It depicted a pair of angelic wings, their feathers stretching elegantly across his forearm, disappearing beneath the frayed edge of his sleeve. The detail was remarkable, each feather drawn with such precision that Jenna could almost envision them rustling in an unseen breeze.

“What does it mean?” she asked him.

His eyes, clouded with confusion, met hers. “Don’t know,” he admitted, the words edged with frustration. His hand reached out in a helpless gesture, as if grasping for an answer floating just beyond his reach.

“Guardian,” he murmured, his voice soft, harmonizing with the gentle flutter of wings. Then, as if as an afterthought, he said again, “Five years. Five years.”

“Please explain that to me,” she urged him, but any reply he made was stolen by the intrusion of a harsh sound—a shrill ring that sliced through the silence of the dream.

Jenna’s eyes snapped open, and the murky world of the bus stop at Hank’s Derby dissolved into the familiar colors of her bedroom. The phone continued its insistent call, dragging her further from the realm of sleep. Jenna reached out, her movements automatic as she fumbled and finally grasped the device, bringing it to her ear.

“Hello?” Her voice carried the sound of her disorientation. She blinked against the sunlight that played across her comforter, casting patterns that seemed to mock her sudden return to reality.

“Jenna, it’s Jake.” His voice was clear, a stark contrast to the spectral echoes of her dream. “Did I wake you?”

“Hey,” she managed to respond, the dream remnants clinging to her like cobwebs. She sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, trying to ground herself in the room’s tangible details—the way the early light caught the edges of her dresser, the soft hum of her air conditioner.

“Are you okay?” There was a hint of concern in Jake’s voice, a subtle reminder of the protective shield he often cast over her.

“I’m fine,” Jenna assured him, though her mind was still racing with the enigmatic words from the man who couldn’t board the bus. She shook her head, willing the image away, focusing on the urgency of the present. “What’s up?”

“Checking in. We’re organizing the search teams for Sarah Thompson this morning. Wanted to make sure you were in the loop.”

“Jake, I won’t be joining you at Whispering Pines,” Jenna said. “I’ve got something else I need to do. I think you’ll have plenty of help.”

“Sure thing, Jenna,” came Jake’s response, ease in his tone. He was used to her sudden intuitions, her unexplained hunches that often led her down separate paths. “Billy Schmitt and his deputy rangers will all be on the job, and they know the landscape a lot better than I do. I might even be kind of superfluous. But maybe we’ll find something that will help wrap this case up one way or another.”

“Keep me updated,” she told him. “And be careful out there.”

“Alright, see you soon,” Jake said. “Call if you need me.”

“Thanks,” Jenna replied automatically.

He ended the call with the usual click that felt like punctuation to their brief exchange. The clock on her nightstand ticked steadily, reminding her of the ticking sound in her dream, the one that grew louder just before she woke. It made her uneasy, though she had no idea why. She remembered the words of the man who had spoken to her: “It’s all about time.” He’d also kept saying something about “five years.” She knew she was working against the ticking clock of a missing person’s case, but was that all his words meant?

Jenna sat up in bed, the sheets falling away from her as if shedding the remnants of that dream. She set the phone down, took a deep breath, and let her gaze drift to the window where the sky painted promises of a new day over Trentville. But her thoughts were on the night that had just ended and on the day ahead. The dream had been a signpost, a nudge from beyond the veil, pointing her toward something—or someone.

The man with the fishing rod, the silent whir of buses, the insistent tick of a clock—all fragments of a subconscious puzzle that demanded attention. It was always up to her to connect dots unseen by others, to draw lines between the living and the dead, but so far this message was still a mystery.

She welcomed the one thing she had grasped clearly. The man in her dream had said a name: Sheriff Frank, the man who had turned his job over to her. But Frank Doyle was more than just her predecessor. He was her mentor. His steadfast presence had guided her through the murky waters of law enforcement and sometimes even through the unpredictable seas of her dreams. If anyone could help her navigate these surreal tides, it would be Frank.

She swung her legs off the bed and planted her feet firmly on the floor as if to verify her existence within this waking world. She moved with purpose, dressing quickly in her uniform and holstering her weapon. Her hand found its way to the phone once more, but this time it was to place it in her pocket. Jenna Graves, Sheriff of Genesius County, stood framed in the doorway of her bedroom—a figure cut from both reality and something altogether different.

Time, the red-bearded man had said, was slipping away, and someone was in terrible danger. The answers Jenna needed to find lay somewhere in a tangle of dreams and reality. As she left her home, the door closed behind her, the click of the latch a punctuation mark on her decision.

“I need to see Frank,” she murmured to herself as she continued on her way. “Something really odd must have happened on his watch.”

But why had Frank never told her about it?