The next morning, Cage got up and sat on the edge of his bed. He hunched over, resting his elbows on his knees. Staring at the rug, he could still feel the thousand things crawling over him.

He lumbered down the stairs, filled his thermos in the kitchen sink, and gulped it down. The hangover made the ringing in his ears louder, a high-pitched whine only drowned out by the caustic clatter of coffee beans whipping around the blade of the electric grinder. But the first hot sip gave promise, and with twitching hands drank the piping black coffee. Finished, he pissed in the mug. It burned. He poured the dark urine into the sink and left out the back door, slamming the screen behind him.

When he arrived at the pool, Cage locked his bike up out front and walked to the entrance. The building was made of cinder block, painted light blue, and had white accent stripes running horizontally about halfway up the wall. At the entrance, there was an older man seated behind a metal screen at a kind of ticket booth. There was a slot below the screen for sliding payments across the table. The man’s nametag said Daryl.

“You’re here early,” he said to Cage. “Got a date tonight or something?”

“We’ve got a game later, starts at five.” He forced out the words from behind the blistering throb in his right temple.

“Very good, young man,” said Daryl. “Keep yourself out of trouble. Hell, how do you think I look so good, an old guy like me? It ain’t from stayin’ out at all hours getting mixed up in no hoopla. No, sir. You just keep coming here, you’ll see.” He trailed off. “And keep playing that horn of yours. Saxophone, ain’t it?”

“Trombone.”

“Trombone, that’s right. Man… I love Louis Armstrong. What a sound. And Miles Davis, shaw’nuff. You like Miles?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Yeah, man. That jazz is good stuff. Beboppin’ and all that.” He snapped his fingers and bobbed his head back and forth with closed eyes. “Oh!” he said, looking back up at Cage. “People have been hearing weird noises behind the lockers--really freaky stuff. Probably just squirrels or something, but best to clear your things out before next week. Maintenance is going to pull them away from the wall and who knows what kind of horrors they’ll find back there.”

After his swim, the knock in Cage’s head had lessened to a dull throb. He unlocked his bike and started home, riding through town with the sun high, its blinding white light accosting him on the muggy afternoon. He passed Vitello’s and a few consignment shops on the main drag, folks out taking advantage of the warmer weather. Up ahead, he saw some classmates: Jonathan, Robert, Deliah… a few others, standing outside of FROSTY’S CONE, the A-frame ice cream shop painted like an upside-down ice cream cone. They hadn’t seemed to notice him, so he beelined down an alley to avoid the interaction, peddling hard up the hill and to the next street over. Once he had passed the group by a few blocks, he whipped back onto the main road, picked up speed into the neighborhood, and was home again to an empty house.

With a few hours left before the game, Cage decided to go for a walk. The back of his home bordered a communal garden shared by many of the families in the neighborhood. He went out through the raised beds, passed an elderly woman pulling up dirty heads of garlic and leeks, and to the back of the lot where the woods began. Under tree cover, the sunlight filtered in through the leaves overhead, and it seemed to Cage that the sparkling beams almost made a delicate tinkling sound, one that could have been heard if not for the buzz of summer cicadas. He walked deeper into the trees and eventually came to a clearing, feeling again the full sun hot on his skin. Cage had spent years behind the lot, exploring the woods, but he didn’t recognize the clearing. The trees circled around him and the cacophony of late summer filled his ears. He took another step and the woods fell silent. Only the crunch of his footsteps on the decaying forest floor were audible.

Looking ahead, a large tree caught Cage’s attention. It had something peculiar about it. For one, it was much wider than the rest, and had grown bent and toppled over to one side. The trunk also had what appeared to be a door built into it, complete with a twisted, winding branch growing out like a handle. Cage walked up to the door, grabbed the handle, and peered inside.

The interior of the tree was deep and dark. But far back in the darkness, Cage could see the flicker of a tiny light. Drawn to the glow of it, he ducked into the doorway and headed toward the blinking beacon.

As he went to the light, the sun and forest stretched far away behind him, until they were nothing but a small window high above him in the darkness. It was cold, and though he was encased in pitch black, Cage could see his breath. He continued on until he came to the source of the light: a kerosene lamp resting on the ground, its flame wavering in some unfelt breeze. Sitting next to the lamp was the boy from his dream, humming a song and playing alone.

“Hello,” Cage said. The boy looked up at him. “What’s your name?”

The boy seemed startled. He stood up and backed away from Cage, but then stopped himself and looked around. “Go away,” he said.

“I want to help you. Would you like to leave this place?”

“Why are you here?” the boy asked. “I want you to go now.”

Cage took a step toward the boy and there came a terrible sound: a rumbling, creaking noise that echoed through the dark and electrified Cage’s body. The boy huddled to himself and shut his eyes. A fog flowed in from behind him, and out of the blackness a figure appeared: tall and hideous and looking at Cage with burning eyes.

The creature was relaxed and poised; steam rose from behind the sharp teeth and protruding lower jaw with each powerful breath. And the gaze. Cage felt paralyzed by it. Consumed by fear, he tried to scream, but the sound was swallowed by nothingness. The creature loomed over the boy. And then, without moving, only by staring into Cage with the wretched eyes, it spoke to Cage in a voice that was the sound of fire smiting the forest, the tearing of trees and ripping of earth, the smoldering life. Again Cage tried to scream.

“Cage! Cage!” It was his mother. She was shaking him as he writhed and screamed. “You’re having a nightmare!”

Cage took a sharp breath and looked up at her, his eyes still in that dark place. He was drenched in sweat. She looked at him, astonished.

“What time is it?” he asked frantically.

“Almost four o’clock. Why?”

“I need to get ready for the game.” He pushed past her and staggered toward the bathroom.

“Cage,” she said. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” suddenly aware of how parched he was, “I need a drink.”

His mother followed him to the kitchen and watched as he filled a jar at the sink. After finishing the cold coffee left in the press he went back upstairs. She sat at the kitchen table while he showered, staring off into the garden as the few shaky, soft tones of his trombone vibrated through the house. When he came back downstairs, she looked at him and said, “I’m proud of you, hunny. You know I love you?”

“I know,” he said.

A car horn broke the silence between them. “That’s Deliah,” he said. “I have to go.” He went to the fridge and poured some orange juice into his thermos and made his way to the front room.

“What time will you be home?” his mother called behind him.

“The game ends at 7:30, but we might hang out after.”

“Call me and let me know where you’re at, okay?”

“Yeah,” he said.

And then he left.

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