Other people’s dreams keep showing up in Calypso’s dream diary and it bugs her. It’s one thing to have people you don’t know show up in your imagination; it’s another to have them fill your notebook with horse imagery, Batman and French. She doesn’t know French. It isn’t even her handwriting.

She locks it but they sneak in anyway, letters stretched and gray from squeezing between the pages. Some of it is disturbing stuff about her parents. “I can wake up from this whenever I want to,” she says aloud as she stares down at spindly capitals, but it doesn’t work.