𝐐𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦?! | 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝟏. 𝐓𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐈𝐧𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲

You rang the doorbell and cracked your neck. It had been a long flight from the other side of the world to Florida, but you were finally here. You cast a doubtful look at the residence. A high-end Spanish-style apartment unit in metro Orlando? It seemed too pricy and too busy to suit a retired couple, but this was the address–there was no doubt about it. 

They still hadn't gotten the door. You paused. Scooted your suitcase. Wondered if you'd get a firm talkin'-to if you rang it again. Eventually, you relented. A while more, and you rang it a third time. The door swung open, and behind it stood what must've been the world's tallest, youngest, greenest-eyed grandfather ever.

"You're not my grandparents."

"And you're not pizza."

"Yes, I am."

The boy standing behind the door took a second to process the joke.

"Okay Pizza, what are you doing in front of my house?"

"Your house?" You squinted at the numbers by the door. Confirmed the address again on your own phone. "Here. I swear, this is where I'm supposed to be." You showed him the note onscreen. "I'm looking for my grandparents. I'm low-risk, so I'm here to take care of them." you repeated. "Are they your neighbors?"

"Nope, never heard of them." He stepped out and bent down to take another look at the address, easily towering over you. "You've got the same number, the same street..."

Horror crashed over you and you yanked the phone away, speed-dialing a familiar number. Your mother picked up after a few rings. "Mom. What state should I be in?" A panicked one? Because that's where you were.

"Dear, aren't you in California?"

"I'm supposed to be in California," you repeated hollowly.

"I'd fly you there, but for your grandparents, I'd feel more comfortable if you self-quarantined for at least fourteen days after being on a couple planes."

You felt queasy. "Fly me home?"

There was rapid typing on the other side of the line. A pause, more typing, and a sharp intake of breath.

"That's what I tried next, but they're not taking people from America right now. You're a citizen and have family here, but it'll take a while to process. I'm calling them right now. Hang in there."

But all was not lost! "Fine, I'll... book a nearby hotel. I probably won't have to stay more than a couple nights." With a few taps, you'd set up a reservation. Triumphantly confirming your credit information, you breathed a sigh of relief. What a crazy and awkward coincidence. You fidgeted as the page loaded. The boy was still there, but it was his house. He probably wanted this bedraggled stranger on their way as soon as humanly possible, and you would be.

"Card Denied," Bookings.com told your amiably. Behind your surgical mask, you gaped. All was lost.

You let out a shaky breath. The boy peeked at your screen. You wanted to send whoever was in charge–of Florida or of the trip–to the shadow realm, curl up into a ball of anxiety, or dissolve into thin air, never to be seen again. But you could do none of those things, and the boy was still waiting for you to resolve the issue.

You exhaled. "Listen, I'm really, really sorry about this–"

"–It's okay."

Isolated by miles of America on all sides, you had no money for a hotel, definitely no money for a flight home, and nowhere to stay the night. Fear churned in your stomach. This was probably a terrible idea, your mother would never approve, and you might die, but it was time to wheel out The Request. "Mr.–"