Her flashlight flickered in and out of existence as she sat cross-legged beneath the old patchwork quilt. She repeatedly smacked the light to her palm to focus the beam, and as it solidified she placed it beneath her chin and gave a wicked grin. She looked directly in the eyes of the omniscient and whispered something sinister. She knew he was there, just like a man knows that the moon is there in the daylight, but unlike the moon it never speaks to men of evil.
At that moment the defined features of her long locks and green eyes faded into sand—becoming nothing but granular bits wafting in the breeze. Eventually the breeze shifted becoming something more powerful—a wind. The quilt fluttered like a tent flap, the flashlight melted into a simple camping lantern, and in an instant the world the girl inhabited was no longer there. She and it had disappeared from reality: a beam of light finally winking out beneath a dark, damp quilt and a merciful moon.
Rory Winters awoke with a sharp jolt. His heart was pounding and he was perspiring. Even though he had the same dream almost every night, it still scared him and his body reacted accordingly. The girl frightened him, but after twenty odd years, the girl beneath the blanket was like an old friend. His tent flapped in the wind as he promptly fell back to slumber dreaming of the morning sun, forgetting the low drone of the jungle background. The treasure and ancient secrets that he would soon uncover in the distant temple were more than enough to plummet Rory back into his vestibule.
Most men dream while they sleep, but great men dream while they’re awake—bending and twisting their dreams into something tangible and real. It is these men that are the most dangerous, because nothing is out of the grasp of a man who dreams amongst the sun.