The Children of Hypnos

S A N D M A N

The Sandman perches at the top of a tall pine tree near the edge of Fenhallow Woods. The Fox has retreated below him, and the two dreamhunter students have made their way back toward the lights of campus.

There is the dean, sipping his tea on the soccer field. He looks the same as the Sandman remembers. He's probably drinking the same tea.

There is Marcia, her hair bright even in the moonlight. The Sandman doesn't know if she looks the same. When she changed, it was always in small ways. The size of her smile. Her stance when she went into a fight. The tilt to her head. She still wears shorts and tank tops when it's too cold. Every year he used to think she'd catch a cold, but he was always the one who got sick.

They speak for a moment before Dean Ashworth turns and follows his granddaughter's path. Marcia remains, feet planted and arms crossed, scanning the line of the trees.

The Sandman shivers a little. She might sense him. He might be happy if she did.

The pine sways beneath him. He digs his claws into the branch to anchor himself. Marcia's head tilts up as she inspects the treetops. She won't see him, but he wants her to. He raises his free hand. Waves.

After a moment, Marcia turns to follow the others. The Sandman watches her until she disappears around the side of the administration building, into the ever-burning lights of Fenhallow.

He allows himself a moment to think of all the things he should have said to her. They spiral out of control in the tornado his mind has become the past few years. It's a devilish whirlwind, his mind, and he can catch and hold it in place for a while. He tries to catch it now, but his fingers slip.

He reaches into his belt and removes a small vial and an eyedropper. The liquid in the vial is lavender and slightly glowing. He puts two drops in each eye. He catches the tornado and crushes it so tightly it weeps in pain. He needs to be sharp to keep track of Emery Ashworth—the girl has a tendency to sneak out. And besides, he was getting a little tired.

Sleep is for the weak, he thinks, and giggles.