Oh, it's you. The boy visiting the Old Man's farm.

...Do you always play alone? I like it here, too, so I come here a lot to play alone.

...Tell me some stories...about the city...and about you...

Jack slowly became aware it was the cottage-cheese ceiling of his $950 a month studio apartment he was looking at. The warm fog of sleep's confusion left him all too soon and the details of his life filled in his brain's questions as he blinked slowly and waited for the blurriness to fade. Red numbers burned into corneas unused to light. His alarm would go off in five minutes.

Before he could readjust his pillow and enjoy the satisfaction of a bed's warmth as only a sleepy man can, the notebook on his bedside table swam into view. With a reluctant groan he slapped his hand towards it and made a bet with himself. If he could find the pen he'd write down what he could remember and if he couldn't he'd go back to sleep until the alarm jarred him back to reality.

The pen rolled into his palm. "Damn." It was only a temporary weakness that led the young man to consider shirking on his bet, but he never did that. At least not when the bet was with himself. The mattress complained in sympathy as he slid up against the cool drywall behind him and clicked the pen. It was only the third time Jack had written details of his dreams in the notebook. The internet said that this was the first step towards lucid dreaming, and in a stroke of whimsy and boredom, Jack had set aside the materials. Dreams didn't seem particularly strange or powerful to Jack. He subscribed to the idea that they were the product of a brain sweeping out it's trash and that dreams were something like cleaning out a cluttered garage. But he had experienced lucid dreaming as a fluke once, and knowing that one is dreaming was great fun; bouncing around the library with no gravity had been an exhilarating experience that ended far too soon. If he could figure out how to do it again... to train himself to the point where every night could be a grand escape...

The notes were underwhelming. The details of the dream had slipped through his memory and disappeared for the most part, only "yellow wheat" and "grandpa's farm probably" remained. It made him think of his childhood for a moment – focus began to waver as he stared back towards the past again, as he often did. Visions of the old man, untrustworthy with the passage of time, came to his unfocused mind. His crinkled smile and even more crinkled eyes. A raspy voice and too-hard clap on the back. "Come and actually do something with me, Sonny – you might like it! Get yer scrawny hide outside for a change!" Eggs, strangely different from the supermarket. Sunburn.

The alarm went off.

Jack let it ring, annoyed at the interruption, but unwilling to give the thing the satisfaction of moving. It was harder to think with the blaring sound at first, but after the first five minutes it turned into a white noise that was almost calming. A deep breath. Three. Two. One. With a flick of the switch, the noise stopped and pale legs kicked off the blankets with false bravado. "Fake it till you make it" was one of Jack's favorite mottos.

Grandpa forgotten, he now pondered whether he had it in him to use mouthwash this morning. The toothpaste was putting up a fight (gotta buy another tube) and it was so cold in the bathroom. He wanted to go back to bed and never get up again. Front, molars, other molars, sides, tongue, spit. Nope. Screw the mouthwash. His reflection caught his eye. The familiar face smiled back resignedly and the bicep flex was discouraging. As soon as he had the cash for some home equipment, it was time to work out. And despite his overall thinness, the pudginess around his sides was getting disconcerting. He'd jog once the weather was nicer. And he'd get better food next time he went shopping. For sure next time.

The shower laughed steam at his dishonesty but the heat was comforting for a few minutes all the same, though the familiar chill of dread in his gut began to counterbalance that soon enough. Like an old friend who doesn't have to ask anymore, the anxiety plopped down and kicked off its shoes while asking the same old questions. Do I really have to go? Why do people need to work to live? Why are people so terrible? Why am I so weak? Why can't I get over this? What should I take for lunch today?

Shaking his head at the immature thoughts, Jack turned the now lukewarm water off and rubbed his raisiny fingers together absently. He mused on his unhappiness in a detached way until he was dry and dressed. The pants cut in to his sides and the tie felt like a threatening hand against his throat. Mornings are hard for everybody, Jack rationalized.

"I've got it good all things considered. Mom and Dad are proud enough. I'm not a failure like so many. I've been saving up and I'll be able to retire good when I'm old and I can probably afford to have a family one day. I've got it good." He talked out loud often, and only rarely felt odd about it. His self-consciousness about his stomach was fresh in his mind, so he skipped breakfast while knowing that wouldn't help.

The drive to work was nice. Music was easy to daydream to and he felt a certain camaraderie with all the other tired faces he saw on the commute. He had picked up the habit of looking out the window during traffic jams to see who was stuck along with him – and the variety of faces was always intriguing. Frazzled women in business-wear pleading for children to stop crying and believe that daycare was going to be fun that day. Listless youths tapping to the beat of the radio. Beautiful women grimacing in very unattractive ways. Occasionally someone would feel his eyes and look over and exchange a wave. Jack felt an odd thrill every time he made the same "Can you believe this traffic?" face to someone.

Work itself was fine as well, as always. Although the young man yearned for nothing more than to fly through the ceiling with a pair of jet boots yelling profanities at his coworkers, he made small talk and got his reports in like a pro.

"Hey, you're looking energetic as usual – wish I had some of what you have!" Somebody said. She'd talk to him occasionally, he felt bad about not caring what her name was enough to remember.

"Hey, meet me behind the office tomorrow with fifty bucks and I'll give you some!" He joked. It wasn't a very good joke, but she laughed gamely anyway.

Fake it till you make it, he'd remind himself. He hadn't made it in a few years, but it would get easier. Even if it didn't, it wasn't like he could get any other job that would pay okay with his experience and degree. Jack was practical, and it had served him well. People were always amazed at how he had gotten through college without debt by working multiple jobs. His savings account balance was a matter of pride, although he was only occasionally uncouth enough to share it with someone. One day he would use the money to escape. And until then, fake it till you make it.

It was while repeating this to himself for the fifth time that day that his phone buzzed with his mother's demand to talk. She knew he was working at this time, so it was probably something he needed to pick up about. As he would remember with a kind of self-hating humor later, he guessed exactly right at what the call would be about before he excused himself outside into the hallway to hit "Answer".

"Hey, what is it Ma?" The usual greeting, maybe a bit peppier than he felt. The mood quickly shifted.

"J-Jackie..." Her voice was quiet, hesitant, and was obviously full of emotion. Jack's throat tightened. He loved both his parents very much, and neither were prone to excesses of emotion, so the unusual weakness in his Mother's voice made him want to be there. Phone conversations were so awful.

"Mom, Mom are you okay?" He knew the answer of course, but it's what he said.

"Jackie, I'm sorry..." She was trying to hold it together. He could sense she had been crying for quite a while before this. "Jackie, it's Grandpa..."

His Mother's Father's death had been a foregone conclusion for a long time, but that made it no less painful for him in this moment. The poor old man had been in and out of the hospital for the last few months after his heart attack. Because he had lived so far out in the country, Mom and Dad had brought him to their house to stay – Jack had seen him whenever he could visit on the weekends. Probably why dreams of memories had been popping up. Not a very talkative man anymore, Grandpa, and there wasn't a lot in common that Jack could talk about. To be frank, it was a bit uncomfortable speaking with him because it was difficult to keep the conversation flowing – but it had been very comforting to sit near him while watching tv, reading, or going through old photos together while Dad narrated every snapshot.

"Mom... Oh no..." Jack felt more saddened for his Mother's loss than his own. He knew she had always been very fond of her Father, and he of her. It wasn't a loss she hadn't prepared herself for, of course, but it would take some time for her to grieve. "Mom..." He began to tear up and allowed his voice to waver. "What happened?"

"We're still in the hospital. He had another heart attack and..." a shuddering breath. "-the, the Doctors said they did everything they could but... Oh..." The sound of her muffled crying fading into the distance made Jack's tears flow that much easier as his Father took the phone.

"Jack, are you there?" Dad, always the rock, sounded calm. It helped a bit.

"Yeah."

"Are you at work?"

"Yeah. Look, I'll get out and get there right away. Which hospital are you at?"

"Presbyterian. Down over on-"

"Yeah, yeah I know where that is," Jack lied. His GPS would tell him just fine, and the time seemed wrong for one of his Dad's overwrought explanations of how to get there. "I'll be there in, like...I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Okay." Hesitation. Neither one talking knew how to end the call. "I'm sorry, I know how hard this is on you. We'll see you soon."

"Okay, Dad. I love you."

"Love you too, son. See you soon." The sound of Mom's sobs was the last thing he heard. The shock of it all sank in slowly and Jack stood perfectly still for a time, indulging in the returning tears for only a minute before moving back towards where the his coworkers were. He knew his eyes were red and was thankful for it – getting out early wouldn't require much explanation now.

It was in this moment, in this walk back towards the office that Jack fully considered his mortality for the first time. He was still very young despite his middle-aged lifestyle, a man of 24, but now he felt almost as if death was hanging over him at this very moment. Judging him and waiting, just as it had waited patiently for his Grandfather.

While making his clipped leave request to his understanding manager, Jack decided that he would quit this practical job that gave him no fulfillment very soon. What he would do next, he did not know, but life was far too short. He also made a bet with himself – if he didn't wuss out and keep doing this thing that meant nothing to him, when he was old like Grandpa, he wouldn't be filled with regret for the time he'd already wasted.

And while driving to the hospital under the unnaturally precise orders of his smartphone, he remembered a bit more of that morning's dream. A bit of a tune, three repeating notes that made his heart a bit calmer. He hummed them over and over again, until the comfort turned into a different shade of grief that he did not know the reason for.