Rolling in from the twenty-first delegation.
The sky was a smashed up dessert tray of amber and mauve. The girl in the argyle socks tried to touch it with her fingertips, but the farther she reached, the further away the sky moved. It was like a dance partner who was always within reach but never in reach. She knew she was dreaming — she’d had this dream many times in the past with a different palette sky. Always, always, her goal was to touch the sky and every time, the sky dodged her advances. This time, however, she wasn’t alone. The man with the rifle was holding up half of the sky. Atlas semi-personified.
The last thing she remembered before waking up was telling him, “You don’t have to do this anymore.”