In my dream, Mum set out leftovers from Christmas dinner, a precise image of December 26th last year, her purple cardigan and white bob haircut somewhat wrinkled in the rush to get everyone taken care of. "Cranberry sauce," she was saying, slapping a plastic container of the stuff onto the counter. "Prawns, pudding, carrots and potatoes." She slung these items inelegantly on top of each other, bags and plastic boxes and a bottle of gravy. "And the turkey," Mum droned. She dropped a pulpy, clouded bag of beige-ish matter on top of the pile.

I stepped closer. "Mum," I said. "Mum, did you cut up the turkey?"

"Well, not yet, must I do everything . . ." she intoned.

I pinched the corner of the bag between my fingers, watching the juices rush towards my fingertips. But it wasn't golden like turkey broth -- rather, it ran thick and red. I pushed my hand against the pulp to see through the cloudy bag. "Mum," I squeaked, only just barely aware of the closed-eyed newborn baby closed up inside the bag as I jolted awake.

I shivered, blinked in the darkness. I sat up in bed, feeling around for Wilbur to comfort me. Each time I reached, I expected my palm to land on his warm belly. Instead, I just felt the hot, damp divot he'd left in the mattress.

"Wilbur?" I whispered, my voice breaking over new tears. "Wilbur, come here. Where are you?"

A growl came from the next room. I froze. A yip, then a bark. I hadn't heard a thing. Blood surged through my head, my fingertips feeling numb and sweaty. Was there someone in my apartment?

I used to have butcher knives and baseball bats seeded strategically throughout my apartment, in case of a break-in. But I'd gotten rid of all those when I adopted Wilbur. The baddies weren't supposed to get in in the first place! I swallowed hard and followed the sound, telling myself that he was just feeling skittish since I'd left him alone most of the morning and afternoon. (Skittish at 2AM, what a lovely creature).

I grabbed the can of spray deodorant on my dresser, perhaps not the most sought-after weapon, but certainly much better than going in there empty handed. I heard Wilbur whimper, growl, then yip -- a strange combination. My heartbeat stabilized a little bit. He would have been going absolutely apeshit if someone really was in the house. He must've just seen a bug outside.

Nudging the door open with my toe, I stepped into the living room. At first, I saw nothing unusual, but then --

In the harsh darkness a light, brighter and warmer than any I'd ever seen before, whizzed past like a firecracker bursting into the night sky. I yelped, Wilbur yipped, and the light disappeared.

A firefly, my mind try to convince me. Just a little bug. You were right.

But no, it was too bright, so bright that to look at it for more than a second left spots spinning in my eyes like pinwheels. "Wilbur?" I whimpered. The mastiff wobbled his skin at me, equally bewildered and blinded. Then, without warning, my obese, fourteen-year-old dog sprang up like a panther and caught the light between his paws so that it shone like cartoon sun rays through his claws.

"Hey!"

The voice startled me to the ground. My back banged against the dresser as I fell back against the wall, feet slipping on the carpet. Blood rushed to my head, roaring like waves. Wilbur, too distracted by his shiny new toy to be disturbed, crouched down close to the thing and removed one paw, clasping it back again in wonder a moment later.

"Hey!" the voice repeated. It sounded so familiar, but from where . . . ? "You let go of her, you bully."

My heart leapt with the realization. Scrambling up from the ground with my palms pressed to the wall, I gasped, "It's you! You're back again!"

And she was, she really was. She jumped down from the open window, her back arched gracefully and chin held high. Her eyes regarded the living room with a sort of hard contempt, jumping back and forth from Wilbur to me. She'd gotten her own clothes back, it seemed, but what a strange outfit she wore -- a dress woven of something that seemed between leaves and silk, tights that gathered up the moonlight and expelled it.

"You lay off her, you stupid beast," she cried, scampering with nimble feet toward the mastiff, who was twice as thick around the waist as she. Well, that fact certainly wasn't enough to deter her from bunching up a fist and slamming it into his big, wet nose. "No!"

Wilbur, stunned at first, did not respond.

Then he pounced again, rabid barks bouncing off the walls. The neighbors would have my head for this. I could hardly believe myself, but it seemed to cruel to watch him tear into this little girl, thin as paper who seemed to be swayed even by the wind itself. So I pounced right after him, grabbing Wilbur around his thick middle and wrestling him to the ground.

The light had escaped and now fluttered almost nervously (Nervously? I thought. Could lights have feelings?) around the girl. Wilbur struggled beneath me as she looked down into my face with those muddy brown eyes, glinting caramel in the light of her companion. "Your beast hurt my friend," she said. She looked away from me.

It was such a strange thing, the way it hurt to have her look away. The disinterest pierced my heart, shocked me. But here she was, standing over me, just like she had so many nights in my dreams . . .

She had the little light in her palms, cradled like communion. It lit up her face, cast shadows underneath her hollow cheeks and glinted on her square forehead. "Are you alright?" she asked. Her tone was very different, then, warm, tender. I felt a pang in my heart as I wrapped my arms around Wilbur's neck, as if trying to cuddle him into submission. The light flickered for a moment, the shadows twitching.

There was a sound like bells ringing, little bells, jingling and merry, but with the familiar resonation of a voice. A small voice, coming from in her hands. I stared in awe, listening. It only lasted a moment, sweet as the incoherent tittering of birds in the morning.

"Well, alright then," said the girl, dropping the thing altogether. The light plummeted down, jingling with surprise, and caught itself before hitting the ground. The girl rubbed her hands together and looked back to me, moved on from the ordeal entirely. "Is your beast going to be still now?" she demanded.

I only stared.

"Lady?" She snapped. "Are you there?"

"Who . . . who are you?" I found myself sputtering. "What do you want from me? What is that thing?" I jabbed a finger at the twinkle, now zooming past us and into the kitchen.

The girl put a hand on either hip and drew her eyebrows together. "Do you not know who I am?"

I forgot Wilbur altogether, then, let him wriggle out from under me. He'd calmed down considerably (an old dog, you have to remember) and took to loping around in the living room, confused to be up so late. I blinked. Blinked again. A word, sweet and familiar, stifled, tickled my tongue. "Are you . . .?"

"Am I . . .?"

"Nan? Nancy?" To say it aloud after all these years did not bring me the catharsis I'd expected -- and why wouldn't I expect it? I'd never even told anyone I named her. Wouldn't speaking my hopes finally bring me some sort of relief? It didn't, though, admitting to it. Rather, the name sounded tinny and false in my ears, the frumpy flamboyance of it never having struck me before as the sound of it was muffled in my own vague thoughts.

Her eyebrow cocked into a sharp, critical point. She looked like she might have laughed, but I missed it. "No. Who's that?"

"I . . . Well, nevermind. No one."

"Okay."

My disappointment felt like a rock in my stomach. Irrational disappointment. Pinning my hopes to this random . . . magical, elusive thief made no sense at all. "Who are you, then?"

"Odysseus."

"What?"

"Odysseus. Hero of the Never Seas, king of the Never Sky, Goddess of the Never Lands." She looked grandly outwards with these words, a fist on either hip. Obviously a sentence she had recited some times before. "I am she."

It only then occurred to me to get up off the ground. So skimpy and little, but she looked so daunting from this angle. "Odysseus like the Greek hero?" I asked. Strange, but maybe not the strangest thing. The light whizzed back past, blinding me for a moment.

"Greek hero . . ." said the girl. I got to my feet and looked her in the eye and she seemed to forget about that altogether. Seemed to forget about the distance between us at all, actually, as she grabbed my shoulders and shook hard. "Are you coming or are you not?"

"Am I coming?"

"Yes!" She let go of me and swiped at the sky, in one deft movement caging the light that circled above us like a bright little vulture. "Did I not tell you? I thought I had. Didn't I tell her?" said Odysseus to the light. The light only gave a short jingle in response.

"Tell me what?" I squinted at her, too foggy with sleep to comprehend her in entirety. She seemed to glow, too, softly, but with a study pulse. "Are you real?"

Odysseus answered simply, "Yes." Then she paused and said, "Well, if I haven't told you, I don't suppose there's time now. What I'd been going to tell you wasn't true anyhow, so what good'll it do? Just come with me. Do you trust me?"

I laughed at her, then. I couldn't help it. What a preposterous thing. "What? No, of course not."

But then. But then I did. And it felt wonderful.