Free The Dream Thief by Kerry Schafer

and thinking about all the things that could be done with them.
    People would pay a lot of money for some of these, and the price would still be cheaper than what the Merchant exacted. Give them what they wanted in exchange for a comfortable life. I could fix up the house. Travel. Buy all sorts of things for Will to make up for what I'd done to him.
    That was the thought that saved me. As if I could buy love, or use money as penance, climbing my way to some twisted happiness on the misery of others.
    Pulling the door shut behind me to minimize contamination as much as possible, I raked my arm across the bottom shelf before I had time for second thoughts. Dozens of bottles crashed onto the floor. The assault on my brain and body was intense, an onslaught of images and sensations that nearly broke my grasp on reality.
    Naked as the jaybird that earned me my nickname from Will. Marsh, also naked, pins my arms above my head and bites my neck, pressing up against me. I'm not fighting him, which is all wrong, but then I'm in a bar, half drunk, swinging my fist with a gratifying crunch into the jaw of a burly guy in a flannel plaid work shirt. He wipes blood from his lips with the back of his hand and balls up his fist to retaliate but then I'm stretched out, languid as a lazy cat on the deck of a raft, one hand trailing in cool water.
    Water skiing, leaning hard to cut across…
    the center line, the whine of my engine a rush of…
    whitewater as the raft bounces and checks…
    I gasped, digging my fingernails into my palms and letting the pain connect me with my own body, over and above all of the other sensations. I knew damn well I was standing in the barn with my feet rooted on those old floorboards but there was so much memory noise it was hard to feel even my own feet.
    Still.
    I sent the next shelf of bottles crashing to the ground.
    Sunlight afternoon. My body feels heavier, more muscular. Dialing back my strength I lob a baseball to a kid with hair so fair it's nearly white. Love fills my chest with an unfamiliar warmth. My son…a smell of sawdust and fresh cut wood, the vibration of machinery, the buzz and whine of a saw…a rush of desire.
    Guilt as I lock the door with the kids outside, but there are soft hands touching me and I want, I need…
    Oh God. I'd found Mr. Alderson's memories. I felt a flash of regret that I hadn't been able to save them and give them back to him somehow, but it was too late; they were loose and blended in with fist fights and fishing and random sexual encounters.
    Another shelf.
    Football games. Hockey. Snow skiing. More sex. More fighting.
    I could hardly breathe, my lungs not knowing whether we were jogging or swimming or kissing.  My overloaded brain shut down all visual circuits, leaving me blinded. Somewhere deep inside I retained a core of my own self, but it was very nearly drowned in a sea of jarring memories. I couldn't remember how many shelves were left and when I tried to guess my muscles got confused by too much input and quivered, feebly, but didn't move.
    Just as I thought I might shatter like one of the little glass jars, I found my connection to Will.
    He was anchored to my heart like a lifeline, solid and real and unalterably Will. He breathed in, and my own ribs lifted to follow suit. I caught the rhythm of his heart, a little fast, but strong and steady. His muscles were strong with purpose, ready for action.
    In the middle of the chaos, he was my one solid thing.
    My vision cleared. Only one shelf left to go, high and out of reach. I could do this. I flung myself at it, a human cannonball.
    Oh, dear gods.
    I'm dying. My family is gathered around the bed, but there's a veil over my eyes and I can't see them anymore. I hear the murmur of voices, all distant. What focus I retain is all on my breath, which comes hard, rasping in and out of my lungs, sucking energy from my last reserves. There is no fear, not anymore, only this focus on one more breath,