Dreamcatcher (ONC 2020)

1

I'm sitting on the wheeled chair behind the counter, playing an online game that requires an arduous amount of focus and a quite adept skill at maneuvering arrow keys, when the warning beep of the locking mechanism snaps my attention back to reality. I switch the tab on my computer to my email and twist my chair to face the door, pushing away the dismal thought of the blocky "GAME OVER" letters flashing on the hidden tab that contains my game. Forget about it—there's a damn customer here.

The knob on the door twists and opens in one swift motion, revealing a rather tall teenage boy. The delayed jingle of the bell echoes out throughout the shop as the boy closes the door—carefully, as if afraid it might spontaneously snap in two. I scoff under my breath. It's not even a customer after all. Just some kid wandering into my shop.

The boy looks at me curiously. He's ridiculously lanky, and his shirt—which has the Jurassic Park logo with the words "JurASSic" underneath—quickly convinces me that his mental age is in the single digits. He has pale skin, and because of the glow the receding rays of sunlight cast upon all of us, his black hair looks brown.

After getting his dose of staring at me relentlessly, the boy looks away and starts inspecting the shop itself. I turn back to my computer, pretending to be busy, while the boy probably wreaks havoc on all my beloved antiques. Whatever. I switch the tab back to my game, ignoring the big red "GAME OVER" letters and starting anew.

It's somewhat quiet for a few moments. Except for the unfortunate appearance of the boy, the store is empty except for Bailee and I. The only sounds are the whir of the AC, the divided ticking of the various clocks, and the rise and fall of our breaths. Nice and peac—

"Hey, uh, excuse m—" I press the alt + tab keys in a panic and lean back in my chair. The boy is standing diagonally from me, in front of the assortment of guns that are laid out next to the counter. They gleam black, blue, and silver under the glass covering that surrounds them—not new enough to grab any attention, and not old enough to be considered rare. But when they sell, it's at a formidable price. I wonder if this kid wants to buy one.

"What is it?" I snap, accidentally coming across more harshly than I wanted to. "Do you need assistance selecting a gun so that you can finally achieve your dreams of becoming a mass murderer?"

"What? No, jeez—are you like this with everyone who comes into this store?"

I gesture at the empty room. "Probably."

The boy sighs, drumming his hand idly against the glass, long fingers tap-tap-tapping. "I'm just wondering where you keep the dreamcatchers."

I stare at him, trying to figure out if he's actually being serious. He stares back unflinchingly. When it's clear that he isn't going to back down, I stand up reluctantly. "They're in the back," I tell him. "Come with me."

The boy nods, practically beaming. I ignore him and crouch down. Bailee's asleep beneath the counter; I ruffle the fur on the back of her neck. "Hey Lee, wake up." She growls at me in protest, then shakes out her golden pelt and pads off into the shop.

Well, that works. As long as she can keep watch for other customers while I'm in the back room. I remind myself to give her some treats before going out later tonight.

"Oh my God," the boy complains from behind as he squeezes through the gap that leads to the back of the store. "Why is this gap so small?"

"Not my problem that you're the size of a giraffe," I retort.

The back of the store, quite frankly, is disgusting. It's cluttered with all sorts of junk that I can't be bothered to clean out. The boy and I walk past candy and junk food wrappers, a giant bulky TV too old to make a profit out of, some banana peels, random papers, and towering cardboard boxes filled with who knows what.