By Hunter Perez
Merrifield finally woke up and released me from his grip. He rolled on his back, raised his arms into the air and yawned, then looked over at me with his newfound smile. I was moved by the serenity he displayed – he seemed to be completely at peace and joy with the world, so very different from the tortured man I encountered the previous evening.
“Do you…do you…have dreams?” he asked. His voice had settled into a deeply pleasant and masculine tone, although he still paused with slight uncertainty between words.
I sat up in the bed and tousled his long blonde hair. “Sometimes,” I answered. “Sometimes they’re good dreams, sometimes they’re not. Why are you asking?”
