My name is Phillip Grosman. Every weekday I drive to work. What I do isn't important, but nevertheless, I drive to work every weekday, and every weekday I see her; the girl on the blue cruiser bike.

When I say 'girl', she's probably in her early twenties. She's probably a student at the University, or she's going to work somewhere. Every weekday I pass her going eastbound when I'm going west. Every evening, as the sun gets close to setting and I'm weary from my long day, she's reversing course as I head home to the east.

She's not ravishingly beautiful, or particularly tall, or fashionable. She has shoulder length brown hair, and wears what appear to be hip t-shirts and jeans, but that's all I really get to see of her, as I'm whipping by in traffic. But her bike always caught my eye. A bright, blue cruiser.

At least, it used to catch my eye. Yesterday, I drove to work, and she didn't pass by, on the wrong side of the street, on the sidewalk, as she always used to do. When I drove home, no girl. No bike. It was a Tuesday, and at work and then later at home, I wracked my brain to come up with a relevant reason.

This morning was the same. No girl, no bike. Did something happen to her? Did she call in sick, or decide to shirk her classes? Did she get into an accident, riding on the wrong side of the road like she did. Did she have a mean boyfriend (I thought, with the accompanying foolish pang of jealousy), who was keeping her at home, or worse? Will she be there tonight, pedaling west as I was driving east, close enough to remember but never close enough to know.

I wonder. I hope.

Billy Morgan lay on the playground, beneath the huge spruce tree, its boughs so heavy they created a natural tent at the base. Beneath this pungent umbrella, he lay on his belly, peering out beneath the inch or so clearance to see his classmates' feet running this way and that. He marked them for a time, making sure none were coming his way. He was in his own little world.

Recess was almost over. He had been delayed getting out of class by Tim Atchison begging for milk money, and then Grant Sizemore who's approach to milk money was far more physical. Still and all, he was out, and he had a few minutes left to investigate it, to turn it over in his hands. His trembling hands flew to the zipper on his backpack like locusts to a cornfield. With the bag open, he paused, seeing the shadowy outline of the crisp, white object, obscured by the confines of the pack and the darkness beneath the pine canopy. He checked his hands for the third time since he came out, making sure they were clean. He had scrubbed them diligently before coming outside and made certain he had not gotten them dirty when parting the spruce's boughs.

He reached into the bag, and pulled out the white box, unblemished, as pristine as the day he bought it. The container was the size of a cigarette box, with its cheerful advertising slogans and product information on the side in eye-catching blue. He read over the words without really comprehending any of them, even though he was reading at a 5th grade level, two grades ahead of schedule. He was procrastinating, biding his time before turning the box over in his hands, gazing at the swirling, uneven loops of the logo. His eyes trailed the crooked spirals into the center, his head tilting like the RCA dog.

He closed his eyes and reached for the flap at the top, his thumbnail pressed against the seal to tear it, finally, for the first and only time.

There was a sound. Without opening his eyes, he withdrew his thumb, as if he had been caught doing something wrong, and listened. There was a sharp snap ahead and just to his left; a dried twig underneath an untied sneaker. Someone was here.

My name is Phillip Grosman. I had the dream again. The falling dream. Although I wasn't falling exactly. I was 'falling' up. The dream takes different forms, but the result was always the same.

I was dressed to go running. The air was crisp but not cold, perfect for a good hour's workout. I locked the door, jogged across the lawn, slipped between two neighbor's houses and was into the clearing before the little section of woods. The woods were nestled between our houses and the stretch of freeway that led from the suburbs to the city proper. As I ran through the clearing, I could feel that unstable feeling in my stomach, unlike nausea or fullness, just unstable. Each step seemed to be lighter in the grass, and then each step became like running on the moon. I remember feeling panicked, as one stride lasted a good fifty feet before touching down again.

I tried to slow down, but my attempts to put on the brakes only caused me to vault higher into the air. The last bound was 30 feet high, watching the scrub and wildflowers in the field get smaller and then dramatically bigger as returned to Earth. I gazed ahead to the woods, hoping to find refuge amongst the trees, something to grab onto to stop my 'fall', but it was too late. The next step, as ginger as it was, caused me to float into the air, and this time, there was no arresting my ascent. I floated up, up, reaching out hopelessly to the tree branches ahead, just outside my grasp. As I rose, I clipped the tops of the trees, hands frantically snapping off twigs that were too feeble to save me. I gripped them, whiteness popping out on my knuckles as the trees, the surrounding houses, the cars on the interstate further out, got smaller, then toylike, then hardly visible at all.

My speed increased, and the sky grew bluer as I rose. Soon I was rocketing upward. The wind buffeted me and I struggled to breathe. I flailed, stricken with panic, feeling agoraphobic, struck by the sensation of floating off into space and of falling down simultaneously.

The sky grew darker, blacker, not nearly the blackness of space, just that deep, rich blue, becoming the blue I knew so well. I slowed, nearly to a stop as the gradient ebbed both in my eyes and in my mind, the tinctures rolling through my head as if they were on my computer. I came to a halt, the color invariably holding steady on the blue. My blue. I choked on the lack of air, or on what stood for air in my nightmare, eyes bulging, tongue lolling, my skin feeling like it was freezing and on fire at the same time.

My vision began to fade white, like looking into the sun, and

I was on the floor, rolled out of bed, my blankets tangled around my limbs. I staggered to my feet, tossing the disheveled bedding back onto the mattress. There was a hint of wetness on my cheek, it smelled like sickness. Or blood. I wiped at it, and instantly felt reassured that it was saliva only and not bile or worse.

I staggered to the bathroom, trying to avoid looking at my heap of running clothes, the déjà vu of the dream already encroaching on reality. It's just as well, I'm late for work.

The boughs of the pine tree rustled and then HE burst in - Dennis Ackers, bully to everyone, red-headed stepchild to the world. Billy Morgan resisted the urge to groan and slipped the white box behind his back, knowing full well that it was too late.

"Whatcha got there, Baby?" Dennis said as he advanced in his swaggering bullrush style. Only a 5th grader (although held back a year), he was the biggest, meanest, dumbest kid in the school, a trifecta of hate with which no kid in his right mind wanted to tangle.

"Nothing," Billy replied, playing out the lame dance even though the result was inevitable.

Billy expected some harsh words or maybe a kick to the chest, but instead Dennis just shook his head. He didn't say another word, just locked his eyes on Billy's. Incredibly, Billy stared back. Whether he was mesmerized or foolishly trying to stand up to...

Billy felt the box wrenched from his trembling grip, even as his fingers self consciously traced the blue spiral on its surface. Stupid, he thought as one of Dennis' illiterate cronies fumbled with his prize.

He looked over his shoulder to see Carter Wizkowski turning the box over in his hands, greasy black hair no doubt ready to drop a load of dandruff and oil onto the pristine white surface.

Billy felt the kick finally come, knocking him flat amidst the pine needles. He tried to take a choked gasp, but Dennis had knocked the wind out of him. Dennis stepped over him, snatching the box from his cohort's grip.

"Lemme see that", he demanded. Billy watched upside down as Dennis tinkered with the box, turning it over in his hands, spinning the box slowly, making the logo move in a lazy mesmerizing circle in his palm. His eyes were glazed over, but he spoke clearly. "This belongs to me now. Thanks for buying it for me, kid."

That's not true, but it might as well be now, Billy thought, painful gasps of air finally starting to return to his rebooting lungs.

Billy managed to turn over to his belly, watching as Dennis was about to do what he never had: He was going to open the box.

Dennis pressed his thumb to the seal as Billy had moments before. Dennis froze for a second, as if caught in time. It was only then that Billy realized that Dennis was exerting himself, unable to open the box.

Dennis' arms trembled, and then his tongue, like a wily asp, slipped out of his mouth and parked itself to one side of his lips as he pushed again, his elbow quivering, unable to make a hint of progress on the seal.

Dennis' eyes unglazed, and he wore an expression no kid had ever seen on his face before: Concern. Suddenly, Dennis grabbed the pack in both hands, like a muscleman might grab a phonebook in order to win a bet, and wrenched mightily.

Or so it would seem. Despite the muscles bulging in his forearms, Dennis couldn't so much as wrinkle the soft cardboard surface, or crinkle the thin plastic seal at the lid. A little sound of exertion escaped his lips, his whole body starting to vibrate as every muscle struggled in concert to assist his hands, but to no avail.

Dennis' eyes unglazed completely and now he looked scared. As scared as he looked when his father was looking for him with an empty rocks glass in one hand and a belt in the other.

Dennis dropped the box and bounced on the floor of pine needles, flopping towards Dennis' feet. He recoiled, backing up, knocking Carter backwards before turning tail and windmilling his arms to create a space to flee the confines of the tree.

Carter looked at Billy, the box and then Billy again, unaware of what had transpired, but feeling that Billy had done something.

"You better find a better hiding spot next time, we'll find you. We'll see you again soon." Carter backed up, not taking his eyes off Billy, eyes that showed stupid bravado but also mindless fear. He nearly fell out from under the branches of the tree, pinwheeling wildly as the poky branches grazed his neck. Billy could hear his footfalls pound away on the grass as he chased after his boss.

Billy sat up, breathing an aching sigh of relief. He recovered his box, turning it over to see the face. Despite an angry orange Cheeto stain across the blue swirl on the face, the box was none the worse for wear.

Taking a tissue from his bag, he dabbed it on his tongue to get some moisture and carefully rubbed away as much of the offending smudge as he could. Satisfied that Dennis' trace was as minor as possible, he closed his eyes, took a breath and pressed his thumb to the seal.

A million miles away a klaxon went off. Billy's eyes flew open as he heard the siren from the incoming authorities. No, it was just the school bell, buzzing angrily, indicating the end of the recess lunch hour. Billy dropped the box in his lap, his face screwed up in a look of sheer disappointment and exasperation. He replaced the box in his bag, looking in one last time to see its crisp white form and the hint of blue starting up at him from the shadows.

Billy exited the tree and hustled to class.