There had always been something so magical about disappearing. Under the spare bed at Grandpa’s, where bad knees and grasping fingers couldn’t touch me. Hidden in the pile of old clothes in my closet, a flashlight, gameboy, and headphones keeping the arguing away. Tucked away in the janitor closet where the bullies couldn’t find me until recess was over. Bathed in the light of a computer screen at home instead of the fluorescent light over my cubicle and my manager’s judgmental eyes on my back.

An alley, in plain sight, when my ex had tracked me down again. Forgotten entirely, even as I tased his balls.

What a gift! To only be seen, to be heard, when I wanted to be. To take what I needed, free from consequence. A forgotten shade, a dream until I chose to make myself real again.

Except I hadn’t been a dream. The PRT had their ways. Hiding under the bed wasn’t enough to escape their hands, and hiding in a closet wasn’t enough to escape hunger or thirst—to escape myself. Moving cities turned back the clock, those without PRT more than others, but never enough to lose them altogether. A specter forever looming over my shoulder. I grew more and more afraid it was inevitable they would eventually catch me.

I wished they had when the screaming filled my ears. When the people fleeing the bank trampled my unseen body, leaving me with a broken leg. When the bank’s roof exploded after I had almost managed to crawl to the vehicle I’d stolen.

When four lifetimes of memories that weren’t mine filled my head. [God. Fucking! Dammit!]

But I especially wished the PRT had caught me when the street beside me exploded.

“Whoooaaa! Wait ‘til Droste hears I totally squished this dude!!”

I tried to call for help. I tried, but all I could manage was choking on my own blood, and my killer vanished.

Kept company by voices in my head and a lonely, keening angel overhead, I slowly drifted away, hidden in plain sight.

A forgotten dream.