NINETY-SEVEN

The heater spurred to life, clicking and clacking as though a dozen tiny creatures with long toenails tried to kick their way out of the vent. Foster held himself under the covers. The nightmare was still vivid.

He’d dreamed that he and a girl — her face already fading away — were racing to the bottom of a cave. Foster suddenly froze, and when his body fell and shattered was when he woke up.

His bedroom window was broken. A dead owl lay at the foot of his bed. Foster avoided ice cream before bed from then on.

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