Free In Your Dreams Bobby Anderson by Sandra Jane Maidwell

pitifully. Her T-shirt said Wednesday again. Yes, today was Wednesday. The party at Neil’s house had been the night before. In actual fact, he was presently lying on his bathroom floor, probably concussed or bleeding to death. It was, in a way, a relief to have things in perspective. Bobby started to feel some sense of control. Think. Think.
    “ Susan?”
    “Yes ?”
    “Today is Wednesday, isn’t it?”
    Of course it is. It’s the day they bring the music. Can’t you hear it?”
    Bobby stood perfectly still and listened. He heard it. Mozart. “Why?” he asked, curious but afraid to upset her at the same time.
    “Beats me. I wish they’d play some Paul Simon, but it’s always Mozart or Beethoven on Wednesdays.”
    “Why Wednesdays?” Bobby asked, searching Susan’s face for a slight clue to her sanity, his sanity, anything.
    “Because Sheila comes on Wednesda ys and she plays this music.” Susan shrugged and stooped to pick something up off the ground.
    Bobby saw that it was a stick. She handed it to him. “So?” Pause. “Are you going to help me?”
    Why wa s it always coming down to this? A few weeks ago it had been nothing but sexy shorts and pebbles on a beach, and now it was all complicated, both here and in real life. No, real life was always complicated, or at least it had been for the past few years; Susan had been the calm in-between. He thought he’d sought her out as a way of regaining his sanity, which was actually just more proof that he was losing it. But now that had all changed. Susan was becoming complicated. He’d been warned that all women possessed this quality, however, he hadn’t expected it from an imaginary girl.
    “I —I,” Bobby stuttered, and thought he’d better come clean. “I don’t know how to build a shelter.” His shoulders slumped in defeat. “I mean, not a real one anyway. Maybe I can build a sunshade, or a sort of palm clubhouse I suppose, but not a real shelter. I wouldn’t know where to begin.”
    Su san stood frozen with her mouth open, and Bobby felt as if he’d just blown the most important interview of his life.
    “You can’t build a shelter?” she asked.
    “Nope.”
    “Can’t?”
    “No.”
    “B— ut what about that movie you did a few years back? You were with that character, what’s his name, and you built this amazing house in the jungle.”
    Bobby trie d to stop himself from laughing—this was not an aha sort of moment. He hadn’t taken Susan for naïve.
    “Su san,” he spoke clearly and slowly. “That was a movie, and the shelter was made by the local village men for the movie. The producer paid them to do it.”
    Susan blinked her eyes a few times and burst out laughing. Poor Bobby could only gape. “I know that!” she said, still laughing at him. “Of course it’s a movie! But for heaven’s sake, Bobby, didn’t you see them do it? Weren’t you there?”
    Bobby shook his head, “They had it built before I arrived.”
    “But they filmed you putting it together.”
    “ I suppose they had a few shots of me lifting and tying branches together, but that was done mostly in a green room. If you watch the movie again you’ll see how it all came together.”
    “Oh. ” Susan looked disappointed and her shoulders slumped.
    “Where are you from?” Bobby asked, changing the subject. He hoped she would answer before getting upset and cause him to wake up.
    “I’m from New York City. Never left.”
    “Really?” Bobby frown ed. He thought they were “here”, wherever “here” was.
    “I guess. ” Susan shrugged.
    Bobby felt his head throbbing . He had hit the hard bathroom floor. He put his hand up to where he felt the most pain and touched sticky blood with his fingertips. This daydreaming of his was turning into a dangerous pastime.

CHAPTER 15
     
     
     
    “Patrick , I need to meet with you,” Bobby was already heading to the door, tucking his shirt in with one hand and holding his cell phone with the other. He