Vintage Soul (37 page)

The sudden crack of thunder too close to the shed ripped through Salvatore's dream and brought him bolt upright on the cot, shivering uncontrollably.
 
His sheet was drenched in sweat, and wind whistled through the cracks in the walls and tore at him, dragging goose bumps up to ripple over his skin.
 
His teeth chattered, and his eyes were open so suddenly, and so wide, that he was momentarily blinded.
  
He saw nothing but the final image of the dream.
 
Nothing but the dragon.

He gasped and fought to calm his heart, and his breath.
 
The dragon released his vision, but it was trapped inside him, thrashing and raging against the storm that was his mind.
 
He glanced toward the doorway, wanting to rush out into the night, and to find out what had happened.
 
The visions never came to him without cause

Slowly, Salvatore rose, pulled his tattered jacket down from its hook on the wall and wrapped it around the damp sheet.
 
He closed his eyes, but sleep was very slow to come, and not deep enough to provide rest.
 
He dreamed of the dragon until the sun reached soft orange-red fingers over the skyline to tempt him from his bed.
  
Finally he rose, dressed, and slipped out the door into the fresh morning air, where he walked to Old Martinez's steps and sat on the cool concrete to wait the "Prophet's" arrival.
  
All he could expect was a warm cup of tea and a slice of bread, but at least he would not greet the morning alone.

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