G is for Good Grief

Good grief. I thought I was just not getting enough sleep. I thought that my imagination was just getting the best of me, but it’s been weeks now and every night is the same dream. The fire station burning. People screaming. Sadness everywhere. I’ve gotten used to the dreams by now. They don’t scare me anymore. But, goodness, I would love to know what they mean.

Remember that trip I told you about at the beginning of all this? We leave tomorrow. Me, Colton, Michal, the twins, some randoms from our class and a few chaperones. I want to be excited, but right now all I think about is the dreams. What do they mean? What are they trying to tell me? Am I completely losing my mind? Maybe the stress of being a teenager is just too much and now I’ve gone and broken my fragile brain.

Or maybe someone – or something – is trying to tell me their story. Today, during my study hall, I plopped myself down in front of the history section and looked up the story of Brookstone and the fire station. There wasn’t a lot there, sadly. The fire station was built to look like it does because the architect in charge refused to make any changes to what he said “came to him in a dream.” He paid for it with his own money, so there was really no way to tell him no. For years, the town considered it an eyesore, but then it just became part of the town, a little bit of crazy in an otherwise perfectly ordered world.

Good grief. I’m tired. I need to close my eyes, but I know if I do the dreams will come again. And, even though they don’t scare me anymore, they do leave me wanting to know more and worried that there is nothing that will make them stop.

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