The sun is blinding above her head. Its white light is glaring and she has to squint to see where she's going. Cal is walking beside her. He takes her hand. The buildings around them are generic indiscriminate shapes; the people they pass have no faces.

She knows this dream; she's had it before.

She knows what's going to happen before it does.

She knows how it ends.

Cal's hand is warm in hers. The sun above them is hot. They turn a corner onto another nameless street with faceless people and shapeless buildings. Cal's hand is warm in hers.

Suddenly, faster than should be possible, thick, dark, clouds suffocate the sun. The smell of humidity and impending rain floods her senses: she can smell it, taste it, see it, feel it. It is cold without the sun, but Cal's hand is still warm in hers.

She knows this dream; she's had it before.

She knows what's going to happen before it does.

She knows how it ends.

There is a peal of thunder, a bolt of lightning. The sky flashes white, then goes dark again.

Cal is on the ground. His blood is gushing, gushing, gushing, gushing, staining the sidewalk red. Rain is coming down now but she doesn't feel it, only sees it. She screams but there is no sound. She presses her hand down on the wound, a gaping hole in his chest. His blood is sticky on her hands and gushing, gushing, gushing, gushing. She's pressing as hard as she can but it is no use because its gushing, gushing, gushing, gushing everywhere and the rain is cold and the blood is cold and her hands are cold and the rain mixes with the blood on then sidewalk and faceless people walk past and and and and –

She wakes with a jolt. She is shaking and covered in a cold sweat. She stares at the ceiling and focuses on breathing until she is calm enough to roll out of bed and face the day. As she pads her way to the bathroom she passes a window, curtains wide open to reveal the day.

Outside, the sun is blinding.