I forced a laugh, but it sounded hollow in my own ears. "Just... some fantasy stuff. I think I was a knight or something."
"A knight?" My dad chuckled, folding his newspaper. "Well, Sir Craig, I hope you're ready for the 'Battle of the Picnic Basket.' Your mother spent all morning packing. Let's get a move on."
The day was terrifyingly pleasant. We piled into the family car—the old, reliable SUV. I sat in the backseat, staring at the upholstery. There was a small coffee stain on the seat next to me that I remembered making three years ago. If this was a dream, it was a masterpiece. It had every flaw, every mundane detail of my life.
We arrived at the park, a sprawling green field dotted with families and barking dogs. The sun was high and bright, but every time I looked at the shadows cast by the trees, I felt a shiver. Shadows shouldn't be that deep. They shouldn't look like they could step out and kill you.
