Clara can't believe it. Nolan is asleep next to her as though yesterday never occurred. She is both relieved and angry.

This would be the perfect opportunity to yell at him, to unceremoniously wake him up and tell him what's what. It would be a perfect opportunity for a breathing girl, that is, but since she is not, Clara sits and watches him with narrowed eyes. He'll wake up eventually.

The minutes tick away. Clara hasn't studied Nolan's face for such a long period of time, not since the days when he was still incapable of seeing her. He's unassumingly good looking, meaning that he knows he's handsome but doesn't put much stock in it. His character isn't built upon the flattery that he most certainly would have received from girls back home. Instead he wraps himself in his hoody in an attempt to minimize his physical appeal. It doesn't work, at least, not on her.

More minutes pass. A crow lands on the edge of the roof, caws once, then flaps its wings, taking to the sky again. This brings Clara back to the present and reminds her that beauty can never be an excuse for bad behavior. She narrows her eyes at Nolan once again.

"You know what would make me feel better..." Clara mouths the words to herself, to Nolan, to no one, "is if I slapped you."

Clara would never have this thought if she was actually capable of making contact with him. No harm can come to Nolan if she swats her hand in his direction, and if it will give her some satisfaction, well then, why not do it?

She raises her hand, and then lowers it. She wrinkles her nose and raises her hand again. Before she can change her mind, she brings it next to Nolan's face, flexes her wrist, and then lets him have it.

Clara touches Nolan.

Well, sort of. She doesn't exactly touch him. He isn't entirely solid, his flesh isn't flesh-like. Instead it's as though she's swimming. The water parts for her, but it's still there, exerting pressure and impacting her movements.

Clara whips back her arm and clings to her wrist with her other hand as though it's been injured.

Nolan opens his eyes.

#

Nolan is dreaming about his mother. In his dream, she wears the floral-print dress she often wore back in the days when she still lived with him. She stands in a roadside field filled with tiny yellow flowers. Out in the middle of the flower sea, her dress is a ripple of purple in otherwise calm waters. He pulls his truck over and crosses the highway. A sign in front of the field reads "Lost and Found." He hops over the road barrier and heads in his mother's direction. He proceeds cautiously at first, but before long, he can no longer help himself.

Nolan runs.

He has no doubt that the woman in the field is his mother. His father threw away all of the pictures of her; Nolan can't remember her face. But he remembers that dress. It is his mother's dress and therefore the woman wearing it is her.

Until it suddenly isn't her anymore. The purples and greens of his mother's floral attire meld to a solid sunset red. Clara stands there, all spaghetti straps and braided hair and gorgeous almond eyes.

"Happy birthday Nolan," Clara says. She says, meaning she speaks out loud, which can't be right, but Nolan doesn't care. Her voice is rich and melodic and sad. "I hope you find what you're looking for. Good bye."

She steps back into the setting sun, her red dress, and then Clara herself, indistinguishable from its luminance.

He is left alone in the yellow field. Hollowness engulfs him. He feels like he's been slapped.

Nolan opens his eyes.