It's late.
Mickelson started from his sleep. He’d dreamed he was in the land across the vapors, and that his presence had somehow saved the mysterious figure he’d caught glimpses of all these years. It all seemed so important, yet he could barely keep his mind on the dream. He should write down what he remembered of it, questions that he had, but instead he felt the comfortable beckoning of Julie’s body pull him back towards slumber. If it was so damn important, surely he’d recall it in the morning.
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