THE VISION IS A PLACE | ✓ {complete}

Chapter 29 : fruit loops

{right click to loop music}

I didn't tell anyone about the light. I saw it in my dreams, probably because it was all I could think about. Last night was the first night in over a week that I didn't have a nightmare. I think it's because the light gave me something to focus on that was strange enough to cut through everything else. It was like the orb became a little green nightlight inside my head.

In my dream I was trying to follow it, but when I got to the edge of the river it wasn't shallow and peaceful anymore; it had turned to rapids, and the usual stepping stones were fully submerged. I felt stranded, like Chris McCandless trying to go home, even though my home was right behind me.

I've decided that today I'm going to go back to where I was yesterday, over on Jameson's land. I want to see if I can find the light again. I don't know why, or how I'm going to do it, but I need to find it, because I think, perhaps, it's been trying to find me.

It's after morning circle now. Van and I are laying on his bed in the camper, looking out the open back door into the valley, listening to a mix tape one of his friends gave him the last time he was home. Him and I spent the last hour taking down his Christmas lights and packing up his van, securing everything inside for his drive home, taking our time with it. I'm in no hurry for him to leave. He's propped up on his elbows now, eating a big bowl of fruit loops with water instead of milk, since his van has no fridge.

"Who is this?" I ask, nodding to his speaker.

"Some kid. He was in the music program at my school for a minute."

"His voice...it's like..."

He smiled. "It's cool, huh. I wasn't sure you'd be into rap."

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"Cuz you listen to it never."

I shrug. "Is that a Passion Pit sample?"

Van smiles. "It is, indeed."

"I like that's he's not rapping about money and cars and all that."

"Cuz he doesn't have any of that. He was one of the lottery kids."

"Lottery kids?"

"Scholarship kids—but, lottery kids. There's a handful every year across disciplines, handpicked by the dean."

"How does he find them?"

"She. Someone has to submit them, or they submit themselves—send in a video or something—and then there are auditions."

"And, if they get in, school is free?"

"Pretty much. Yeah."

"That's cool your school has that."

"Yeah, but most end up just dropping out. Aw fuck, I forgot I was going to burn you a CD before I left."

"It's okay. I get new music sometimes from that kid at the market."

"The barista boy?"

"Yeah."

"Good. That's good then." He puts his bowl aside and lays his head down on his hands. We stay in the silence for a little while, listening to the lyrics, until we hear voices on the driveway. We both know what's coming.

He readjusts so that he's looking at me now. "So, this is it," he says quietly.

"This is it."

He reaches into his pocket for a folded piece of paper and hands it to me. "It's my phone number. I don't know how easy it would be, but if you ever get a chance at the market or something to slip away... I just really don't want this to be the last time we talk."