If memories were liquids, then Elizabeth Walker's would be blood. Not warm, life–giving, tissue–bathing blood, but cold, coagulated, dried up, and stepped–over–on–the–sidewalk blood.

Memories weren't liquids.

They were more like fireflies blinking in the dark, daring to be caught, disappearing a moment before they could be reached. And the only liquid left in Elizabeth's body was a few unshed tears. They hardly ever fell now. Even they seemed to be drying up on her.

Nightmare or not, she would claw her way through any level of consciousness to save the boy. The last ounce of breath she drew from her lungs burst out as a scream, leaving her choking and gasping for air.

The sense of urgency to save him, to do something, burned frustrated holes through the bottoms of her feet—feet that did not touch pavement no matter how fast she moved.

She had to do something. But what?

She calculated the likelihood of reaching him and came up short. He was far. No way could she reach him in time. Yet waiting, doing nothing, wasn't an option either. Protective instinct propelled her legs forward, and damn the odds.

"Somebody. Help." She pushed herself from the dream.

She dug her fingers into her mattress, discharging a crush of bleach into her hyperventilated nostrils. A drowning sensation filled her lungs. She clenched her chest muscles. She gasped, struggling for oxygen.

A door slamming against a wall made her sit bolt upright. Two bulky men in blue scrubs burst into the room.