Does dreaming you are dead mean that you really die? The question came to Tori slowly as she stirred from oblivious sleep, stretching her feet between the smooth sheets, twisting her hips to a more comfortable position, and finally opening her eyes enough to see that it was day. “Wake up, Van Camp,” she mumbled, but her dread did not dissipate as nightmares do when faced with sunlight.

As full memory returned, Tori’s eyes opened fully. She clutched her chest, dreading the warm, sticky blood certain to be there. A man had aimed a pistol directly at her. A twitch of his hand, an odd thumping noise, and after that, she recalled nothing.

The hand at her chest felt nothing unusual. There was no blood, and she was perfectly whole. Still, the image of death did not recede. The memory became more vivid, not less, the feeling that it had really happened more intense. Tori could almost hear the doorbell, her footsteps as she went to answer it, the few words spoken, and the silenced gunshot.

It was not that she felt dead, and a glance at a mirror to her right revealed that she did not look dead, either. Was her impression of death a dream? It had to be, and yet, it was so clear.

Three crisp knocks on the door startled her out of her reverie. On the other side of the door was a petite blond woman with darkly tanned skin and more makeup than a CNN anchor. “Ms. Van Camp? I’m Cinda, your hostess. How was your rest?” The words came in the professionally caring tone that people such as nurses and waitresses seem required under oath to adopt.

“Um, fine,” Tori replied uncertainly.

“Super!” Cinda exclaimed, more excited by the reply than was necessary. “Rest is the best thing.”

Confused by the banal opening remarks, Tori tried to ignore the woman’s perfume and over-the-top cheeriness. “I have some questions.”

“Of course you do.” Cinda tilted her head coquettishly. She was definitely of the perky persuasion, and while the ability to be upbeat at all times might be admirable, Tori suspected it often came from a superficial understanding of circumstances.

“Okay, let’s see. Your questions will be answered at…” she held a clipboard and, pulling a pencil with an abrupt rip from a little Velcro pad that secured it, used its point to make her way down a sheet of names. “…ten this morning, Office 112 D, if that’s convenient for you.” The reference to Tori’s convenience must have been pure diplomacy, since she did not wait for a reply. “Until then, you’re free to explore, okay? Breakfast is here on Deck E, and the fitness center on D is open all the time. You might get a massage, take a sauna, or visit the gym.”

“But I don’t understand what’s happened.”

“That’s why you’re meeting Nancy at ten. Until then, enjoy the facilities.”