Chapter 1
Beep. Beep.
My routine lunch alarm goes off at exactly one minute to noon. It gives me just enough time to wake up and adjust to the daylight before heading downstairs to the cafeteria. Not that I am ever groggy enough to need a minute to wake up. The balancer sees to that.
All workers, please check in at station 2 at 4 o’clock to receive new instructions.
Midday announcements blare in the speakers overhead as I squeeze my way into the hall and inside the crowded elevator. During the short ride, I am trampled and pushed around, but I am used to it. The doors open and I hunch my shoulders as chaos erupts around me.
Mr. Davy, who occupies the room directly across the hall from me, continues his daily tradition and pushes me back inside the elevator the first time I try to get out. Miss. Chambers, with her new 8 inch high-heel boots, adds a sharp stamp on my sandaled feet. And, of course, Pierce Flapper, the flabby kid with a gang of scrawny eight year olds, finishes off by sneering at me and pushing the button for the elevator to close.
It doesn’t, though. My finger had already moved itself to the open button and was anticipating Pierce’s routine move. When the elevator is finally empty, I step out and walk briskly to the cafeteria.
  The ladies behind the cafeteria counter smile at me when I walk up. Since I am always the last one to get my food, we have a special arrangement. I figured out quickly that the scraps of food on the bottom of the trays are tasteless, so the ladies save a plate of food in the back for me, and in return I help them with the loads of dishes afterward. Even though it cuts into my dreaming time, I don’t mind.  Besides, our doctors warn us to cut down on the dream time.
Today’s lunch special is a spicy pumpkin soup, and I assume that they’re getting us into the holiday spirit. The large calendar at the end of the hall shows that Halloween is in only two weeks. The Annual Nightmare Festival was announced to be held the day directly before Halloween, and we will all sign into the drift line so that we may interact freely. Or, as free as a dream will allow.
The cafeteria is as crowded as always, and I bump into quite a few people while weaving my way around the tables. My mother sits at a table near the middle of the hall, full of gossipers and want-to-be’s. She doesn’t acknowledge me, even when I brush up against her shoulder when squeezing my way in between tables. And I am beyond caring.
I look for my father in the horde; he’s the one who cared for me and loved me. My mother was too weak to obey the “no dreaming until two years after pregnancy” rule, and succumbed to her desires of fantasy. My father, left with a wailing and practically motherless child, stayed away from his dreams to take care of me, even after the two years.
“Bria!”
Father stands two tables away, surrounded by unfamiliar faces. I march over to him and set my tray down in a huff.
I’m starving,” I complain as my stomach rumbles.
Father laughs when he sees me gulping down spoonful after spoonful, and, in no more than ten seconds, my soup bowl is already half drained.
“How where your dreams?” I ask when my hunger is satisfied.
Father sighs. “I wish you wouldn’t use slang so often.”
I roll my eyes at him, and he shakes his head at me. He’s reminded me often that the correct term is somnium alucinatio mentis (which means: a fantasy that occurs when you let your mind wander), but it’s such a mouthful that nobody calls it anything but dreaming.
“Yes, I dreamt fine,” my father huffs, using the slang term for himself now.
Smiling, I absentmindedly tear at the paper napkin on my lap, until small bits break off and flurry down onto the tiled floor. The pieces that fell on the white squares are invisible to me at first, but I can easily see the bits on the black squares. I put my foot on them and grind them to pulp beneath my heel, the napkin pieces disappearing in a tragedy of physics.
“Making snowflakes again?” Father points towards my hands, which are still tearing at the napkin, and I realize that the fissured napkin has taken on the shape of a classic snowflake. It was a tradition that my father and I began, for no reason save our perpetual love for the beautiful solid water.
“The summer’s been too long cooped up in here,” I grumble, “and they’re not likely to let us outside when winter comes, either.”
Father shrugs, and we lapse into a meditative silence. We are both finished with our food, but don’t want to be the first to leave.
“Well,” I begin hesitantly. “I have to go help with the dishes.”
Father smiles, aware of my arrangement with the cafeteria ladies, and rather proud of it, too. He enjoys knowing that I don’t spend all of my time dreaming, and encourages me to even go to the gym when I can. Most of the time I take his advice; I like to run, even if I don’t get anywhere.
My footsteps echo off the linoleum flooring in the kitchen, and the ladies turn to me, their arms bustling with dirty dishes.
“Hello, Bria,” the ever-cheerful Fern Wilson smiles and waves at me.
“Hello! What do you need help with today?” I ask.
“Well, it would be nice if you actually helped today, instead of just getting in my way!” Han Ramble remarks surly as she pushes me aside. She glares at my empty hands with her vulture eyes and continues to make vulgar remarks as she circles around the kitchen.
“Oh! Ignore her, we appreciate your help back here,” Fern smiles and points back towards the tables, “and you can go over there and help Golva clear the tables.”

After a few hours of cleaning and chatting, I head back up to my room. The elevator is empty, and the hallways are, too. The world is as dead as night, yet it’s only 2 o’clock in the afternoon. It’s not hard to guess where everyone is, although, there’s really no guess. There’s nothing up in the air about it; it’s a fact of life.
People here spend every waking moment in a dream.