Peter Jacobs was dreaming when the phone rang and awakened him. He was one of those people who knew he must dream but rarely remembered any of them. But this dream would stay with him. Later he supposed it was because he came out of it so suddenly. Yet he also wondered if it was the nightmarish quality that caused the dream to linger. Certainly, at that point in his life, when he did return to the normal world, the madness started.
In the dream he was fishing with his best friend, a girl he didn't know in real life. They were on a wide lake surrounded by mountains. The evening sun was just setting behind one of the peaks, casting a red glow over the mirror-lake water. They were completely alone. In every direction, there was no sign of people or buildings. His friend sat in the bow of the large sailboat, her rod in her hand, her line in the lake, her blue jeans rolled up, and her legs lazily swinging back and forth over the gunwale. The girl was pretty, he realized that much, and he knew she was an old pal. But he wasn't sure of her name, and that bothered him.
(Excerpt from The Cold One by Christopher Pike copyright © 1995, p. 3)
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