I never wore shoes or socks around the house. Something about the feel of a cold floor on the bare bottoms of my feet, or tiny needles of grass prickling at my soles... I think I liked it so much because it made me feel alive. The old wooden steps of our back porch make a high-pitched creak as I fling myself down them and dance into the yard. It's a perfect kind of day; I can feel the sun breaking through the clouds and warming the shirt on my back as I suck in a breath of fresh summer air.
 
"Dad! C'mon, hurry up already!"
My impatient calling is met with a chuckle from the doorway as my father shuffles into view. "I'm coming, I'm coming. Honestly, if I only had a fraction of your energy." A tall man, slender but very fit. A man that would always stick firmly to his beliefs, always work hard and who absolutely always looked after his family. That was the kind of man my father was. I roll my eyes as he saunters gingerly down the stairs.
 
"Oh, yeah right. How come you always beat me when we race then, if you're such a tired old geezer?"
He tosses me one of the baseball mitts in his hands. "Luck", he replies with a phony smile. I stick my tongue out at him, which earns me a laugh. Slipping my hand into the glove, I spin around and bolt off in the opposite direction. In a few yards, I turn and flag him down with my arms.
 
The ball comes whizzing through the air, but there isn't much power behind it. I snatch it in my mitt without a problem. "That was a throw?", I yell to him across the lawn. "Maybe you really are getting old!" I drown out his rebuttal as I find my stance, take aim and launch the baseball at him as hard as I can. It hits his glove with a crack.
 
"'Atta girl! You could sink a ship with an arm like that!" He lobs the ball back to me, but the trajectory is a little high. I stretch my arms out above my head, but it's not going to be enough. With a hop, it lands safely in my grip. I try to throw a curveball, but I mess it up and he ends up having to run for it. The game of catch continues, back and forth. We talk about trivial things, just soaking in the afternoon together as father and daughter.
 
It must be I remember that part clearly because it really did happen. It wasn't the first or only day I spent like that with my dad; actually, it used to happen all the time. Biking, camping, running... we did all kinds of things together. We were practically inseparable. I guess my brain just picked that memory to lock away with all it's little details.
 
... But that's always where the dream would stop being pleasant. After a few months, it became like I was somehow aware of when the dream would turn sour, even in my sleep. As if I could feel it coming, and I would find myself pleading to my own dreams to let me stay in that backyard with my father, just one time. But every night, my wishes were declined.
 
I'm running. I don't know why, or even where I am, but I'm running like my life depended on it. This isn't the kind of running that makes you feel good, or that you're doing for yourself. The only detail I can ever take with me after I've woken up is that I'm running because I'm scared. I'm terrified, and I need to move fast. I absolutely need to run.
 
How long have I been running for? In a dream, I guess it's impossible to tell. Eventually I find something coming into focus ahead of me. A road, stretching infinitely into the blurry, unspecific haze of my subconscious. I'm heaving and my heart is hammering painfully in my chest. I soon notice a silhouette on the empty highway, accompanied by the low hum of an engine. A familiar red car is cruising along, and somehow I know that my father is behind the wheel.
 
But I'm not happy to see him. Even in my first encounter with this nightmare, I was horrified to see his face. The unmistakable feeling that something isn't right; that disaster is waiting with baited breath. That's all I could feel as he slows to a halt some distance before me and rolls down the window. My dad leans across the seats and beckons me to get inside. His usual loving, fatherly smile is scribbled on his face.
 
I scream at him. Against my will, my pace slows to a jog. My body is on fire. I tell him to get out of the car, out of the road. I beg him until hot tears roll down my face, my voice cracking and screeching and my arms pumping tiredly at my sides. But my dad just keeps looking on, telling me with those gentle eyes that my mother is waiting for us back at home. I'm frustrated, exhausted, and utterly afraid.
 
It all happens in a blink's time. In my dream, the oncoming car is only a blur of color. But I could never forget the look of that dark blue pickup truck. The image of that car as I looked on through our backseat window that day is one I doubt I'll ever wash out of my head. At the sound of tires shredding down an open road, my father looks up. And just as my voice reaches a blood-curdling pitch, the most sickening sound in the world assaults my ears.
 
Twisted metal and broken glass. Our little family station wagon is barely recognizable now. A grim, deathly silence hangs in the air that makes me feel like vomiting. I'm shaking. Every bone in my body is shaking as I look at the carnage not feet from where I'm standing. There's a lump in my throat, and my breathing is scattered and dry. I stare unbelieving at the wreckage of which my father is now part, and only one thought is breaking my trance and prodding at my mind like a hot fire poker.
 
I wasn't fast enough.
 
~**~
 
"Emi..."
He's looking at me with a troubled expression. I guess that's not a big surprise. I told him all about that stupid nightmare pretty much out of the blue. But I knew it was something he was curious about. He used to ask me about it from time to time, but I would always swerve around the subject. Eventually, he just gave up. It was something I owed to him.
 
"Why tell you all this now, right?" I read his thoughts out loud.
"Well... yeah." He's so cute when he's confused.
"5 months." Beaming, I hold up a 5 with my fingers.
"Huh?" Clueless. I scooch over to him and lean my body against his. As if  by reflex, his arm wraps around my waist. I feel myself relax.
"It's been 5 months since the last time I've had that nightmare. Ever since middle school, I've never gone more than 2 weeks without it, tops."
His eyebrows perk up. "Seriously? Emi, that's great! ... Thanks. For you  know, sharing all that with me. It must not have been easy to get all th-"
I shut him up with a kiss before flashing him an honest smile. "Stupid. I'm the one doing this to thank you."
For a second or so, he looks at me with an expression I can't quite read. The kind you get when too many thoughts are bubbling in your head at once. But it quickly fades into a smile of his own. "Sorry. Guess I stole your thunder."
I prod his side, making him jump. "Damn right you did. And after I went through all that trouble! I think you owe me, Hisao."
His shoulders sag. "I always owe you something. What's it like not to be in debt to you, I wonder?"
I push myself off the ground and give my prosthetics an energetic bounce. "I guess you'll never know." I offer a hand and stick my tongue out at him, which earns me a laugh.