In the dim, in the cool, Brian lay in his bed and dreamed. He dreamed of finally building a tree-house, finally riding his bike all the way up the hill on Johnson Street. Oh the things Brian would do now that he could do them, had the hands and feet and arms and legs and mind to dream. He was afraid of the thing under the bed, still, but he’d managed to trap it in the wood grain finally.
Brian woke, needing to go to the bathroom. Before swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, he shone the flashlight underneath. The beam showed a slight change to the swirl in the floorboards but no movement.
He got out of bed, almost falling. This was going to be harder than he thought – he could barely stand. A television reflected the tiny light of the nightlight malevolently. Strange boxes squat underneath the TV, each replete with button-covered appendages connected by thin cords.
Did he even have a bicycle, Brian wondered as he shuffled carefully across the floor, strewn as it was with clothes and plastic cases.