“Whose memory even is this?”

The dinosaur stared up at him with sad, wet eyes, an expression that made him faintly sick. “I don’t know,” she admitted.

“What were you saying just a bit ago? There was like, a hiccup or something…”

“I don’t remember. What were we doing?”

“So I think you were hurt, and I was crying, and then…”

They both stared at the ground, trying to recollect anything that had just happened. A gust of wind blew treestars in circles above their heads. He thought they looked like sparrows, or maybe vultures.

She spoke again: “I think I’m supposed to be someone else’s deeply metaphorical advice-giving ghost.”

He hummed to himself, dragging his foot in a circle on the dirt. “That would make more sense, wouldn’t it?”

“I guess so. Is this awkward for you?”


He looked down at his feet. Claws. Paws. Feet. Hands. The entire environment was shimmering, rippling around him. Oh, this had to be migraine aura, right? Where were his painkillers? They must be in his desk. Where was his desk? Where