Døtres fremtid

Chapter One

The body lay in perfect repose on the Victorian fainting couch, looking more like a sleeping beauty than a victim. Detective Sarah Chen had seen enough death in her ten years with the Metropolitan Police's Special Cases Unit to know that natural death never looked this peaceful. Something was very, very wrong.

        'No signs of struggle, no marks on the body, and yet...' She leaned closer, studying the victim's face. Charlotte Mills, aged 28, was found by her roommate this morning, apparently having passed away in her sleep. Her expression was serene, almost blissful, but her eyes - those were what caught Sarah's attention. Behind the closed lids, her eyes were moving rapidly, as if still deep in REM sleep.

        "You see it too, don't you?" The voice came from behind her, rich and cultured with a slight Irish lilt. "She's still dreaming."

        Sarah turned to find a tall man in an impeccably tailored charcoal suit standing in the doorway. He hadn't been there a moment ago, she was certain of it. His dark hair was streaked with silver at the temples, and his eyes were an unusual shade of amber that seemed to shift color in the light.

        "This is a closed crime scene," she said firmly, her hand instinctively moving toward her weapon. "How did you get in here?"

        He smiled, but it didn't reach those strange eyes. "Dr. Marcus Thorne," he said, pulling out a card that somehow both looked official and seemed to shimmer slightly. "I'm a consulting specialist with the Department's new Oneiric Phenomena Division."

        "The what division?" Sarah frowned, taking the card. The moment her fingers touched it, she felt a slight electric tingle, and the letters seemed to rearrange themselves before her eyes.

        "Dreams, Detective Chen. We investigate crimes involving dreams." He moved into the room with fluid grace, his attention fixed on the victim. "And this is the third one this month."

        Sarah's mind raced. There had been two other deaths recently - both young women, both found peacefully dead in their sleep. She'd seen the reports but hadn't made the connection until now. "How do you know about those cases?"

        "Because I've been tracking the killer for quite some time." Thorne knelt beside the body, his eyes now definitely more gold than amber. "He's what we call a Dream Collector - someone who has learned to enter and steal dreams. But this one has developed a taste for more than just dreams. He's taking souls."

        Under normal circumstances, Sarah would have dismissed such talk as nonsense. But there was something about the scene, about the victim's still-moving eyes, about Thorne himself, that made the impossible seem suddenly plausible.

        "If you're tracking him," she said carefully, "why haven't you caught him?"

        Thorne's expression darkened. "Because he only appears in dreams. The physical world is my domain, but his... his is the realm of sleep. To catch him, we need someone who can walk between both worlds." He turned those unsettling eyes on her. "Someone like you."

        "Me?" Sarah almost laughed, but the sound died in her throat as memories she'd long suppressed began to surface. The dreams that felt too real, the nights she'd awakened to find objects moved in her room, the way she sometimes knew things she couldn't possibly know...

        "You've always known you were different, haven't you, Detective?" Thorne's voice was gentle now. "The dreams that come true, the hunches that turn out to be right, the way you can sometimes see how people died just by touching objects they owned..."

        Sarah took an involuntary step back. "How do you know about that?"

        "Because I've been looking for someone like you. A Natural - someone born with the ability to cross the threshold between waking and dreaming." He gestured to the victim. "Charlotte here won't be his last. There will be others, and their souls will remain trapped in an eternal dream unless we stop him."

        Just then, the victim's hand twitched, her fingers moving as if writing something. Sarah moved closer, watching as invisible words were traced in the air. Thorne pulled out what looked like an antique monocle and held it up. Through its lens, golden letters shimmered in the air where Charlotte's fingers moved.

        "Help me," Thorne read aloud. "He's coming for the others."

        Sarah felt a chill run down her spine. She looked at the victim's peaceful face, at those restlessly moving eyes, and made a decision that would change her life forever.

        "Tell me what I need to do."

        Thorne's smile was grim. "First, you need to learn to control your abilities. Then..." he held up the monocle, through which Sarah could now see strange symbols glowing all around the room, "you need to learn to hunt in dreams."

        Outside the Victorian townhouse, storm clouds gathered, and Sarah Chen, homicide detective and newly discovered dream walker, took her first step into a world where nightmares were real, and death was just another kind of sleep.

Chapter Two

The basement of the Natural History Museum was the last place Sarah expected to find the headquarters of a secret dream investigation unit. Yet here she was, following Thorne through a maze of storage rooms filled with artifacts that seemed to pulse with their own inner light.

        "The mundane world only sees what it expects to see," Thorne explained, using an ornate key to unlock a heavy wooden door marked 'Private Collection.' "To them, this is just museum storage. To us, it's the largest collection of dream artifacts in the Western Hemisphere."

        The room beyond defied physics. It stretched impossibly far, filled with glass cases containing everything from ancient masks to modern-looking devices. Floating orbs of soft light illuminated collections of bottled dreams - actual dreams, swirling like liquid mercury behind glass.

        "Your badge, Detective," Thorne held out his hand. Sarah hesitated before handing over her police credentials. He placed it on a strange device that looked like a Victorian music box crossed with a computer. When he returned the badge, it felt different - heavier, somehow more real.

        "Now you'll be able to access both worlds officially," he said. "Look at it again."

        The badge had changed. Alongside her regular police credentials, new text had appeared: 'Special Inspector, Oneiric Investigations Division.' The letters seemed to shift between English and something older, something that made her eyes water if she looked too long.

        "Before we can hunt the Dream Collector, you need to understand what you're dealing with." Thorne led her to a case containing what looked like a normal pillow. "Touch it."

        Sarah reached out hesitantly. The moment her fingers made contact, the world tilted. She was suddenly standing in someone else's dream - a sunny beach, but the sky was green and the sand whispered secrets. She jerked her hand back, gasping.

        "Good," Thorne nodded approvingly. "Most people can't pull back from their first dream artifact. You have natural barriers."

        "What was that?" Sarah's heart was racing.

        "A dream fragment from 1892. A young girl's last dream before the influenza took her." His voice softened. "We preserve them here. Dreams carry memories, emotions, sometimes even pieces of souls."

        "And this Dream Collector... he takes entire souls?" Sarah remembered Charlotte Mills' peaceful face and restless eyes.

        "He traps them in eternal dreams, feeding off their essence." Thorne moved to another case, this one containing what looked like a cracked mirror. "Each victim becomes part of his collection, their souls powering his abilities, letting him dreamwalk without natural talent like yours."

        Suddenly, the cracked mirror began to frost over. In its surface, Sarah saw Charlotte Mills' face, mouth open in a silent scream. Then another face appeared - another victim, she presumed - and another.

        "He's showing off," Thorne growled. "He knows we're investigating."

        The temperature in the room dropped dramatically. Frost patterns spread from the mirror to nearby cases, and Sarah heard what sounded like distant laughter.

        "Well, well," a voice echoed through the room, seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere. "A new player in the game. And such interesting dreams you have, Detective Chen."

        Sarah felt something brush against her mind, like cold fingers trying to pry open a door. Instinctively, she slammed her mental barriers shut. The presence withdrew, but not before leaving behind an impression of amusement.

        "He's already caught your scent," Thorne said grimly. He pulled out a small velvet bag and removed what looked like a dreamcatcher made of silver wire and black pearls. "Wear this when you sleep. It won't keep him out entirely, but it'll stop him from stealing your dreams while you're still learning to defend yourself."

        As Sarah took the dreamcatcher, her fingers brushed Thorne's, and suddenly she was hit with a flash of his dreams - centuries of memories, battles fought in realms of sleep, and a profound sense of loss that made her gasp.

        Thorne withdrew his hand quickly. "Your abilities are stronger than I thought. We'll need to work on your control."

        "What are you?" Sarah asked directly. "You're not just some government consultant, are you?"

        Before he could answer, an alarm began to sound throughout the facility. One of the dream bottles had turned black, its contents writhing like smoke.

        "He's hunting again," Thorne said, already moving toward the exit. "Someone in the city has just entered their last dream. Are you ready for your first real case, Detective?"

        Sarah touched her new badge, feeling its power hum under her fingers. "Do we have time to save them?"

        "If we're lucky, we might catch him in the act. But remember - in dreams, he's incredibly powerful. One wrong move and you could lose your soul."

        As they rushed from the dream archive, Sarah caught one last glimpse of the cracked mirror. In its surface, she saw her own reflection smile back at her with eyes that weren't quite her own.

        The hunt was about to begin.

Chapter Two

The basement of the Natural History Museum was the last place Sarah expected to find the headquarters of a secret dream investigation unit. Yet here she was, following Thorne through a maze of storage rooms filled with artifacts that seemed to pulse with their own inner light.

        "The mundane world only sees what it expects to see," Thorne explained, using an ornate key to unlock a heavy wooden door marked 'Private Collection.' "To them, this is just museum storage. To us, it's the largest collection of dream artifacts in the Western Hemisphere."

        The room beyond defied physics. It stretched impossibly far, filled with glass cases containing everything from ancient masks to modern-looking devices. Floating orbs of soft light illuminated collections of bottled dreams - actual dreams, swirling like liquid mercury behind glass.

        "Your badge, Detective," Thorne held out his hand. Sarah hesitated before handing over her police credentials. He placed it on a strange device that looked like a Victorian music box crossed with a computer. When he returned the badge, it felt different - heavier, somehow more real.

        "Now you'll be able to access both worlds officially," he said. "Look at it again."

        The badge had changed. Alongside her regular police credentials, new text had appeared: 'Special Inspector, Oneiric Investigations Division.' The letters seemed to shift between English and something older, something that made her eyes water if she looked too long.

        "Before we can hunt the Dream Collector, you need to understand what you're dealing with." Thorne led her to a case containing what looked like a normal pillow. "Touch it."

        Sarah reached out hesitantly. The moment her fingers made contact, the world tilted. She was suddenly standing in someone else's dream - a sunny beach, but the sky was green and the sand whispered secrets. She jerked her hand back, gasping.

        "Good," Thorne nodded approvingly. "Most people can't pull back from their first dream artifact. You have natural barriers."

        "What was that?" Sarah's heart was racing.

        "A dream fragment from 1892. A young girl's last dream before the influenza took her." His voice softened. "We preserve them here. Dreams carry memories, emotions, sometimes even pieces of souls."

        "And this Dream Collector... he takes entire souls?" Sarah remembered Charlotte Mills' peaceful face and restless eyes.

        "He traps them in eternal dreams, feeding off their essence." Thorne moved to another case, this one containing what looked like a cracked mirror. "Each victim becomes part of his collection, their souls powering his abilities, letting him dreamwalk without natural talent like yours."

        Suddenly, the cracked mirror began to frost over. In its surface, Sarah saw Charlotte Mills' face, mouth open in a silent scream. Then another face appeared - another victim, she presumed - and another.

        "He's showing off," Thorne growled. "He knows we're investigating."

        The temperature in the room dropped dramatically. Frost patterns spread from the mirror to nearby cases, and Sarah heard what sounded like distant laughter.

        "Well, well," a voice echoed through the room, seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere. "A new player in the game. And such interesting dreams you have, Detective Chen."

        Sarah felt something brush against her mind, like cold fingers trying to pry open a door. Instinctively, she slammed her mental barriers shut. The presence withdrew, but not before leaving behind an impression of amusement.

        "He's already caught your scent," Thorne said grimly. He pulled out a small velvet bag and removed what looked like a dreamcatcher made of silver wire and black pearls. "Wear this when you sleep. It won't keep him out entirely, but it'll stop him from stealing your dreams while you're still learning to defend yourself."

        As Sarah took the dreamcatcher, her fingers brushed Thorne's, and suddenly she was hit with a flash of his dreams - centuries of memories, battles fought in realms of sleep, and a profound sense of loss that made her gasp.

        Thorne withdrew his hand quickly. "Your abilities are stronger than I thought. We'll need to work on your control."

        "What are you?" Sarah asked directly. "You're not just some government consultant, are you?"

        Before he could answer, an alarm began to sound throughout the facility. One of the dream bottles had turned black, its contents writhing like smoke.

        "He's hunting again," Thorne said, already moving toward the exit. "Someone in the city has just entered their last dream. Are you ready for your first real case, Detective?"

        Sarah touched her new badge, feeling its power hum under her fingers. "Do we have time to save them?"

        "If we're lucky, we might catch him in the act. But remember - in dreams, he's incredibly powerful. One wrong move and you could lose your soul."

        As they rushed from the dream archive, Sarah caught one last glimpse of the cracked mirror. In its surface, she saw her own reflection smile back at her with eyes that weren't quite her own.

        The hunt was about to begin.

Chapter Three

They arrived at St. Bartholomew's Hospital just as the emergency lights began to flash. Sarah followed Thorne through corridors that seemed to blur at the edges of her vision, her new badge somehow clearing their path without ever being shown.

        "Room 307," Thorne said, his voice tight with urgency. "Young male, admitted for minor surgery, slipped into an unusual coma during recovery."

        The patient, David Parker, age 23, lay perfectly still on his hospital bed, his eyes moving rapidly beneath closed lids. Just like Charlotte Mills. But this time, something was different - the air around him rippled like heat waves over hot asphalt.

        "He's still in the process of taking him," Thorne said, pulling out what looked like an antique pocket watch. "We can follow if we're quick. Are you ready for your first dream dive?"

        Sarah's heart pounded. "What do I need to do?"

        "Take my hand. Focus on the patient. Let your consciousness slip between the moments of reality." Thorne's eyes began to glow that strange amber color. "And whatever you see in there, remember - dream logic is real logic in that world."

        Sarah grasped Thorne's hand and looked at David Parker. The world tilted, twisted, and suddenly...

        They were standing in a hospital corridor that wasn't quite right. The walls breathed slowly, the floor was made of flowing water that somehow supported their weight, and the ceiling was a swirling mass of constellation maps.

        "His dreamscape," Thorne explained, his voice echoing strangely. "Every dreamer creates their own reality. Look."

        Down the impossible corridor, a figure in a doctor's coat was leading David Parker by the hand. But the 'doctor' was wrong - his shadow moved independently, reaching out with grasping tendrils towards other dreams that floated past like soap bubbles.

        "The Dream Collector," Sarah whispered.

        As if hearing his name, the figure turned. Sarah's breath caught. His face was a beautiful mask of shifting features, never settling on one form, but his eyes... his eyes were endless pits of swirling dreams.

        "Ah, the new dreamer," his voice was like silk over broken glass. "And my old friend Marcus. Still trying to police the dream worlds?"

        Thorne stepped forward, and Sarah noticed his appearance had changed in the dream. His suit was now made of living shadows, and wings of dark light stretched from his shoulders. "Let him go, Collector. You've taken enough souls."

        The Collector laughed, the sound causing the hospital walls to crack, leaking golden dream-light. "Taken? Oh, Marcus, you still don't understand. They give themselves to me. Show her, David."

        The young man turned, and Sarah saw his eyes were glassy with bliss. "It's beautiful here," he said dreamily. "All my pain is gone. All my fears. He takes them all away."

        "By taking everything you are," Sarah found herself saying. She took a step forward, instinctively reaching for her police badge. In the dream, it transformed into a shield of pure light. "David, this isn't real healing. It's theft."

        The Collector's face rippled with anger. "You dare interrupt my collection?" The corridor began to twist, reality bending around them. "Let me show you what happens to those who interfere with my work."

        Suddenly, the floor beneath Sarah liquefied completely. She started to sink, but instead of water, she was drowning in dreams - thousands of them, each containing a fragment of someone's stolen soul. She saw Charlotte Mills dancing endlessly in a ballroom of mirrors, saw other victims trapped in perfect moments that had become eternal prisons.

        "Sarah!" Thorne's voice cut through the chaos. "Remember - dream logic! Make your own rules!"

        Dream logic. Sarah closed her eyes, focusing on her years of police work, of protecting people, of solving puzzles. When she opened them, her badge-shield had transformed into a sword of pure thought.

        With a cry, she slashed through the dream-flood. Reality reasserted itself - or at least, this dream's version of reality. She stood on solid ground again, facing the Collector.

        "Impressive," he purred, but she sensed uncertainty in his voice. "You're stronger than the usual dreamers Marcus recruits. Perhaps we could make a deal..."

        "No deals," Sarah said firmly. She could feel her power growing, reshaping the dream around them. "David, look at what he really is. Look with your heart, not your fears."

        For a moment, David's eyes cleared. The Collector's beautiful mask slipped, revealing something ancient and hungry beneath. David screamed, pulling away from the creature's grasp.

        The Collector snarled, his form shifting into something monstrous. "If I can't have him willingly..." Shadows exploded from his body, reaching for David.

        What happened next seemed to unfold in slow motion. Thorne spread his dark wings, shielding David. Sarah's sword of thought became a net of light, trapping some of the shadows. But the Collector himself simply... stepped sideways, vanishing into a door that appeared in the air.

        "Sweet dreams, detectives," his voice lingered behind. "We'll meet again soon. After all, Sarah, your dreams are particularly... appetizing."

        The dreamscape began to dissolve. Sarah felt Thorne grab her arm, pulling her back through layers of reality. Then...

        They were standing in the hospital room again. David Parker was awake, gasping, but alive and whole. A nurse was rushing in, responding to his sudden revival.

        "We saved one," Thorne said quietly. "But he'll be angry now. And he'll come for you."

        Sarah touched her badge, still feeling echoes of its dream-power. "Good," she said grimly. "Because I have some questions for him about Charlotte Mills. And about what you really are, Marcus Thorne."

        Thorne's expression was unreadable. "All in time, Detective. For now, you need to rest. Tomorrow, your real training begins."

        As they left the hospital, Sarah could have sworn she saw her shadow move independently, reaching for dreams that floated just beyond the edge of sight. The world would never look quite the same again.

Chapter Four

Sarah's apartment looked different when she returned that night. The shadows seemed deeper, more alive, and ordinary objects cast reflections that didn't quite match reality. The dreamcatcher Thorne had given her pulsed softly in her pocket, responding to the changed way she now saw the world.

        She was exhausted but afraid to sleep. The Collector's words echoed in her mind: 'Your dreams are particularly appetizing.' Instead, she spread her case files across the coffee table - photographs of Charlotte Mills, the other victims, and now David Parker's medical records.

        A soft chime from her badge interrupted her concentration. The metal had grown warm, and when she touched it, words appeared in that strange shifting script: 'Archive. Now. Emergency.'

        The museum was different at night. Sarah's new badge led her through doors that hadn't existed during her first visit, down stairs that seemed to descend far deeper than the building's foundation should allow. She found Thorne in a circular room she hadn't seen before, surrounded by floating screens of light that showed various dreamscapes.

        "We have a problem," he said without preamble. "The Collector's attack pattern has changed. Look."

        The screens shifted, showing a map of the city overlaid with points of light. "Each light is a dreamer," Thorne explained. "The blue ones are normal dreams. The red..." He gestured, and several dots pulsed an angry crimson. "Those are nightmares being actively shaped by outside forces."

        "He's attacking multiple targets at once?"

        "No." Thorne's expression was grim. "He's leaving traps. Dream-snares. Anyone who falls asleep in these areas risks being pulled into a constructed nightmare. He's trying to overwhelm our ability to respond."

        Sarah studied the pattern of red dots. "They're forming a shape... a symbol?"

        "A summoning circle." A new voice joined them. Sarah turned to see an elderly woman emerging from what appeared to be a door made of starlight. Her eyes were milk-white, but she moved with absolute certainty.

        "Sarah, meet Dr. Eleanor Price, the Archive's keeper," Thorne said. "And yes, she's blind in the waking world, but in dreams..."

        "I see everything," Eleanor finished. Her unseeing eyes fixed on Sarah with uncomfortable accuracy. "Including what our friend the Collector is truly planning. He's not just taking souls anymore. He's building toward something larger."

        She gestured, and the room transformed around them. They were suddenly standing in what looked like a vast library, but the books were made of dreams, their pages flowing like liquid memory.

        "Every dream ever archived is stored here," Eleanor explained. "Including the oldest nightmares of humanity. The Collector isn't just a thief - he's trying to wake something that should stay sleeping. Something we locked away centuries ago."

        She pulled a book from the shelf, and its pages burst open, projecting a scene of ancient horror - a time when the boundary between dreams and reality was thinner, when nightmares could walk in daylight.

        "The Last Nightmare," Thorne said softly. "We thought it was safely contained, but if he completes that summoning circle..."

        A sudden tremor ran through the Archive. One of the red dots on the map had grown larger, pulsing violently.

        "He's starting," Eleanor's voice was urgent. "Sarah, you need to see something before you face this." She pressed her fingers to Sarah's forehead, and suddenly...

        She was in a memory. A younger Thorne stood with a woman who looked remarkably like Sarah herself, facing down a shadow that threatened to devour the world. The woman - another dream detective? - sacrificed herself to help seal away the nightmare.

        "Your mother," Eleanor's voice echoed in her mind. "She was one of us. Her sacrifice helped lock away the Last Nightmare, but the Collector has never stopped trying to free it. And now he's found you - her daughter, with her power."

        The vision ended abruptly as another tremor shook the Archive. More red dots were pulsing on the map.

        "Why didn't you tell me?" Sarah demanded, turning to Thorne.

        "Because I promised her I'd keep you away from this life," he replied, pain evident in his voice. "But now the Collector knows who you are, and we're running out of time."

        "The summoning circle will be complete at the next new moon," Eleanor added. "Three days from now. If the Last Nightmare wakes..."

        "Then we stop him before that happens," Sarah said firmly, though her mind was reeling from the revelations. "How do we break these dream-snares?"

        "It's dangerous," Thorne warned. "Each one is a trap designed specifically for dream walkers. If you're caught..."

        "Then you'll just have to watch my back," Sarah said. She touched her badge, feeling its power respond. "Where do we start?"

        Eleanor smiled, her blind eyes somehow twinkling. "First, you need to understand what you truly inherited from your mother. It's time you learned about the true history of the dream walkers - and why the Collector fears your bloodline above all others."

        As if in response to Eleanor's words, the books around them began to glow, their pages rustling with the weight of secrets about to be revealed. In the map above, the red dots pulsed like a countdown to catastrophe, and Sarah realized she had less than three days to master powers she never knew she had.

        The true game was about to begin.

==========
Hjemsted for Maren og Winnie Pressley
==========
F'RsEzDAGn DdENH 2Z9B.q OdKTOBETR .KL.Y 23:3K0Y
Hvis savlen i hendes mundvinkel var en indikation, var Marens forsøg på at holde sig vågen, indtil Winnie kom hjem fra sin babysitning, en episk fiasko, som hendes datter ville sige. Maren kiggede på den bærbare computer, der stadig sad på hendes bryst, og som ligeledes var gået i dvaletilstand. Med et hurtigt tryk oversvømmede den internetsøgning, hun havde startet, inden hun faldt i søvn, hendes nethinde.
Af sur nysgerrighed havde hun googlet det usædvanlige navn på den professor, hun havde mødt tidligere på aftenen, da hun uanmeldt havde været forbi sin chefs hus for at aflevere deres tunede espressomaskine. Som den mangeårige personlige assistent for Alicia Stone, en af de mest magtfulde kvinder inden for teknologi, mødte Maren hele tiden berømtheder og magtpersoner. Denne professor fra Boston virkede ikke som nogen særlig person - sandsynligvis bare endnu en brik i Alicias udspekulerede plan for at sikre hendes datter Brooke optagelse på Stanford. Men da fristen for tidlig optagelse nu kun var tre dage væk, var han endnu en påmindelse om, at Stanford var forbudt for Winnie, i tilfælde af at Maren havde overset alle de tidligere advarsler.
Maren strakte sin nakke, som var stiv efter at have sovet i en underlig vinkel på sofaen, smækkede sin bærbare computer i og stak hånden ind mellem sofapuderne for at finde sin telefon. Det sidste, hun huskede, var Winnies sms om, at hun var på vej hjem, men da hun fiskede telefonen frem og låste op for skærmen, så Maren, at klokken allerede var halv tolv om aftenen. Var hun allerede kommet hjem og gået i seng uden at sige godnat?
M^aureanR dskDuTllse liUge ftil aCt& ,tZjek)kue rW'iNnnies. sovev$æLrelXsae, dzaq sddezt riqnwgeÉdeG Tpå dvøtr(en, Geftemr.fKubl(gt& Naf piBnsMiste!rGencdeU bóamnkniZnUg v-_ Zog plutdxs(eclxig ygik dieBtP oDpG forg MaureSn, act' deth Rvar& wlAydBen Saf dd(ørlklQok,keknz, djer^ _hyaTv.dep fåetW mhOendeÉ tiXlr aótW v)åSgneD iV fø!résKte omgamng.f ,Msed etty smilv Xi mugnd$vigewnea foBr*eTstirlHl)edkew MIarVenk Dséig WinnieI på dømr(trinrnect Kuden RnhøgPl.e men'dnuM meVn gaxng.I A(f såFdanG eQté kPlvogt cbarn at vuærte*, UvNar dhÉeFnddes pdatt&eprH latptKe^rklRisgt ,g.lemsomi.A JDa yM!aarFeny bgiQk& dVeQ Ufiåu Ws^kpriXdt Jhe&nA jtóilj døLren ftirl dermes .l(ial&lweé Jbcungjalsowd,H ZråbtJeV jhun:z O"OLkayS,c Koukfay! Jegh kofmmRegrT!" éHóunv ^dreLjeddÉe) Opiå døZr_hånódtageStV oWgs gj_ordKe sMig k_lDaxr tizl lavt Rhil'sRe pjåA WiLnnhieU _med_ netK XkzlaAssRisUk mioSdne$rlHi$gpt Ubplik, deirY siagdme: "uJeXgA Heqr gvlaIdq ifoSrf, atS pdAus NerP ékozm_metd .séikckxeért) hmjeZmc, mzen. Xhvmad gplo,kkpezrl?"&
Men hendes skæve grin forsvandt i det øjeblik, hun åbnede døren. Det var ikke hendes datter; ikke engang tæt på. Ved synet af den uniformerede politibetjent, der stod under det svage, dødt insektfyldte vergelys, lukkede Maren instinktivt den tykke cardigan, hun havde på over sin slidte pyjamas. "Hej, betjent. Kan jeg hjælpe dig?" Selv om Maren var blevet opdraget til at tro, at politiet var verdens bedste hjælpere, havde Marens eneste rigtige kontakt med politiet for mange år siden givet hende et helt andet indtryk.
"Godaften, frue. Jeg er betjent Wilson. Er De fru Pressley?"
Hvordan kendte han hendes navn? Marens nervesystem gik i højeste alarmberedskab. "Ja?"
"Ers lRowKaFn sPrefsPslYeXy hDere)s bdattder?X"
Der var aldrig nogen, der kaldte Winnie ved hendes fulde navn. "Ja," sagde hun med en voksende følelse af frygt.
"Frue, jeg er ked af at fortælle Dem dette, men Deres datter var ude for en alvorlig ulykke."
"Nej," sagde Maren og rystede på hovedet. "Er du sikker på, at du har den rigtige person?" Hun havde lyst til at smække døren i og forsvinde tilbage i sin lur eller sin forvirring eller endda sin bitterhed over for Alicia. Alle andre steder end her.
"Frdue, éer deét dxinB daVttéerXsR AmKobiltwelefNonU?V"&xnhbmsp;SBeTthjaenntu WilsÉon hhoHldtJ ewn iYP)h_one dfr$esmW mteMd) We)t QvVelkkTendbt* XlysBe!røAdta Fe(téuVi.! RDenL ósbå Lf'jo!lwleté ud i nhYanfs stoxrSe hånRdflMagdeg, xogW MkarenM varrq lingeJ vTed sa*tQ sfixg(e fdehtG,$ RsoIm oNm detC pbåó eOnD delylzers GavndCeyn jm.ådeh qvilIlge bevJizse!,b at TtBelhefuonePné iBkkkDeC vawr^ yWinnnzies,S hvvisO huQn kumnnZe mønstre xeSn Vvvitutigt wbMemMæyrkninbgR.h So)m iX slPoww!mZoBtÉionF Tstå éMaóróen, at* fheQnadJe$s hå_n$d& rUaBkte udJ efOteQr $teLlefwonMenI.i BGlagsqsetv vadr ésZliemHt knYækkAet.J wHFu*nf vpevnidOtueH rd$einS oPmj oAg YhHåbóedneÉ *mkodn a&lle oddÉs*, atR hKun ikke *fCandét dwet m.estI .ibndlygsendVe$ ke_n.d.etiegn,ó uneómbldigp BdKeknj unnigk!ke hP_opTSiockpe(t, dern Nvamr( dMesji^g,nezt DtVixl Oast! tltigne ren plaSkseysLuYshiruMlKl)e, 'somr WGinhnÉiyef xhavde fs'peyn^deurjetm nvoglje af siin&ey .bhatbyAsiiytvtqeGrHpiengZe! p*åP. FF'rygtenR !bfølgedeU NgeGnngeFmm MNarenx. "ÉÅh_ GTud( G..W.' eró hun oók'aNy?"M
"Som jeg sagde, har hun været ude for en alvorlig ulykke. På en elektrisk scooter," sagde betjent Wilson. "Hun er blevet bragt til Memorial Hospital. Jeg er ked af det, men jeg har ingen oplysninger om hendes tilstand."
"Men hun er i live, ikke?"
"De har ikke delt nogen detaljer med mig. Jeg blev kun bedt om at underrette hendes forældre og tage dem med på hospitalet." Betjent Wilson flyttede sin vægt og så ud til at kigge ind over Marens skulder i huset. "Er Winnies far hjemme?"
"YNeMj.! éDetY &eYri pbare )mig.& Ktu.n Kops. toJ."
Han nikkede. "De vil gerne følge mig til Memorial nu, frue."
Maren var frosset på stedet.
"Frue?"
"Jdau,O Aokéayn. B(aBrXeP ygri^v mtiCg) et& CmYinRutS."_ &DYa ghuny qlukkNedpe d&ørqen Votg! vwendt(e skign homu f^oBrN at ls*kMif!t$e ud laDfk RsYin $pSyÉjapmas,J bVleÉv huuón ioypslXugt ayfM Le*ny srorta kskIyW amf pQanXik$. Hun lBænÉedSe *séiXgX stÉiÉlzb.algdes mOod dfø,re,n oAgb HklemytRe OøjrnSenge QsIammRenf i exta øjAeblik,s tmerns hhun ønOsckeddOep, at henIdeks( psyn sk$utlsle (blimv)e kkWlartd,C ogU _at h*enFdes bbenn skUu'lle ihpoGlhdef op cmeyd aZt rdysbte.j GMBed dxemn ene shiåYnmd soAmL mstUøptPtqe mod væWg'gen tzogh Éhunu JetU cpa&rk skJridÉt mobdC Lsi&tp UsovJevdæDr*eDlÉsóe,t meHn) BbnleDvj hstaoppe,t aaf ydée biUlledÉeró,b dVeIr sótodY Xi jgtangein.g lSIeglóv omX hun xgqivk fsoZrSbi LdDisse kbSi^lSlederr hÉvder daUgQ, rKe$gsisbtór$eÉre_dne Zhunp VdemI kiutnY SsjóæLldent._ lN^u ku,nnme huvnj ikSkeS irfivWe øljnMe*nyev 'fyrWam TdNemL.' AWi&nnAiheJs )fjolledeH ngridn) påV aswinM VfBemkåIrs fdøOdsceclsVdwagX, Wdvear Bv,iAstel 'dentl whZul,, hv,oar henYdeNss 'to ne'ddersteL mDæOlQketænwdewr* eJnkgmaYn(g hÉa.vdet &sdiNdFdet.* GWinnTie oOg $B*roCokeH sComM $ti*åCrXiGgzex &iv mYaTtcSheYnde IS)taCnbforfd&-Td-ksh$irJt&s med MaUramVenie tJæwt om éhiSnandnen plåA sótrCanden_ f$o(rang LSt.olnesF') FhyttueF ApKå aSZanY J*uanh Islancdp.s CDengaón_gh ódWe Lszttaxd,iAg. Nvar bedDste vvePnivndgebrX. Sfi.drste årds yskoKlie^béalX, hvo$rU WjianmnFiseZ VvVar 'tQrseP tomm&e&r BhRøjÉepr*e Éid pstiAl(etWte)r eRn_dn (heInd!eQsY ,nonrmIalev Jfe!mb fOowd Gskyzv) tbojmRmweqr,t vifUøprtl en blød blåh k'jtoélve, RdVer frBemh^ævóedeF OhóetnZdLeRs, nahturlniógÉe suk$øhnXhQeud éudenI atv (viihsée dAe'nq frCem.t UOugZ ddhet *ssetn*eTstFe bi&lqledRe dpTå^ GvSæg,gfenr -I Wci'nNnViDeu Ab^lev oFptaget hi Na(t^ionaCl HrohnoFr SSociSetyh ij sidystCe måpnxexd Z-l hvopr Xhaudnd v!ar ynæsytJeyn lig,e sSå gahmTmeWlc soJm Mcabrecn va'rf, Lda rhbendeOs_ Ol&iyvs æhntddreHdxej YsOicgH for $altvid.K )Marce_nj DhuTsékZeLr,A vat hulnk tKæwnktGe, LdYaf Lhun t'oNg gdet! &bzilsl.edBe., ató alVth Qh)uSn lønWsÉkeDdeG AvJar* ait Sb'eZvarSe ks&inn WdNattReBrsB lYylkcke ogK beszkFyattLeg hen.dhe.a &WNiJnrni,e Jvakr dalCt, Whkvapds bhunh hPawvdceé. NHun kbauste*de etG tQårlev&ædeIté bPliFk opQad Éog) rtiggedfe! met )a(l$v_idveAnÉdseL yvzæs.eLnW,g som hBunó if^o,r nldængLst hGavhdbeB oNpRgi^veWtZ: JV^ær ésGød, vHætr HsWøYd, Lvæór szød atc lTaKdeq he.nd)e v)æOreO oskaWy^.

* * *
Maren fulgte de blinkende lygter fra betjent Wilsons patruljevogn foran hende, mens de snoede sig ned ad sidegaderne i hendes beskedne kvarter, et af de få tilbage i Seattles teknologiske boomlandskab, og ud på den hovedvej, der skulle føre dem til Memorial Hospital. Hun forsøgte at koncentrere sig om at holde en passende afstand mellem deres biler, men hendes hjerne nægtede at samarbejde, og hun rystede ukontrolleret, mens hendes frygt bombarderede hende den ene efter den anden. Hvad nu hvis Winnie døde, før hun nåede frem, og hun aldrig fik sagt farvel? Hvad nu hvis hun var lammet eller hjernedød? Og selv om hun vidste, at det var den mindste af hendes bekymringer, hvordan skulle hun så nogensinde klare de astronomiske lægeregninger, uanset hvad der skete med Winnie?
Selv om hun havde arbejdet for Alicia i mere end ti år og havde overlevet alle andre ansatte i huset, havde sygeforsikring aldrig været en del af aftalen. Maren havde undersøgt muligheden for at få dem dækket i det forgangne år, men selv de subsidierede priser, der var tilgængelige på statens sundhedsudveksling, havde virket for skræmmende. Hun havde satset på deres gode helbred og i stedet brugt pengene på at udskifte bilens gearkasse, vel vidende, at de bare skulle få Winnie på college, hvor Winnie i det mindste ville være dækket af en mere overkommelig universitetsordning. Ville hospitalet overhovedet behandle Winnie? Skulle hun sende en sms til Alicia? Som medlem af bestyrelsen for Memorial Hospital kunne Alicia sikre, at Winnie fik den behandling, hun havde brug for. Alicia havde altid hævdet, at hun elskede Winnie som en anden datter. Før alle de sidste par ugers collegevanvid ville Maren ikke have tøvet med at bede hende om hjælp. Men nu håbede Maren, at det var et opkald, som hun ikke ville være nødt til at foretage.
Efterj NeWn sjuusGkMeYt pNanrSkIeri*n.gr på* édDernh éféørste l^esd$ige pmladus msrplr^int'e!dqeM MareGnM gCe&nOnPem sBkYadaesXtuenws rautoumaHtirskWe vswkydxedXø&rse og JhenOveunIdIt'eÉ s(igP til$ eYk(supNedietnten, dDeNsRperaa,t eftTecr opFltysnKiCnngeTr.l GEDksHp*eTdi,enzteyn koCnsuGlt*e(reLde ssiTnl chomÉpsusteRr. "Din da,tÉteéri &er ,póåv xo_perqationssbtueJn _livgBe Unu. STå snart) dlbæ'gerNne Pka'nx, fsePnudVe*r YdNe anogwe(n audd for FaMt! oWp'dvaRtMere dFi(gF.* De $kwan_ (tXageV 'pmltaXdVs i óvejnteTo&mrNåduet..F".
Er du allerede blevet opereret? "Hvilken slags operation?" Marens stemme knækkede. "Det betyder, at hun er i live, ikke?"
"Jeg er ked af det, men jeg har ikke flere oplysninger. En læge skulle snart være ude," sagde ekspedienten. "Åh, vent. Mrs. Pressley? Det ser ud til, at vi ikke har din datters forsikringsoplysninger i computeren. Har du dem med dig?"
"Øh nej, det har jeg ikke. Jeg forlod mit hus så hurtigt." Maren gjorde et nummer ud af at klappe sine lommer. "Det vil ikke påvirke hendes pleje, vel?"
"Nej^,F meJn Qj)exgó Kfårr bfrjugO *for denY xinfVormactfiloOny,S Énår &dcuv BhaJrc mulAiCg*hed Mfbor dewt."B
"Ja, selvfølgelig," sagde Maren. "Jeg skal nok tage mig af det, så snart jeg kan." Det var ikke ligefrem en løgn, selv om det mere var et ønsket udsagn end en konkret plan.
Maren scannede venteområdet. Der var en ung familie med tre børn, der løb frit omkring, en uglet skægget mand, der enten var hjemløs eller hipster, og en kvinde, der sad på den anden side af lokalet iført en sort puffrakke og en baseballkasket. Maren fandt en ensom plads, langt væk fra de andre, med frit udsyn til "Uautoriseret adgang"-dørene, og gik i gang med at vente.
Der gik en halv time, og Maren bad igen skrankepersonalet om oplysninger og studerede hendes ansigtsudtryk for at finde tegn på, at Winnie ville være okay. Men der var stadig intet fra kirurgen, og hverken ekspedientens ord eller hendes kropssprog afslørede noget som helst. Da hun gik tilbage til sin plads, bemærkede Maren, at den unge familie og den hjemløse/hipsterfyr var blevet erstattet af nye bekymrede ansigter, men kvinden på den anden side af lokalet fortsatte sin egen ensomme vagt. Maren undrede sig over, hvad hendes historie var. Hvem ventede hun på? Maren havde en fornemmelse af, at kvinden også vurderede hende. Hun forsøgte at trøste sig med, at hun ikke var helt alene med sin bekymring, men det nyttede ikke noget. Hun satte sig ned og lod hovedet falde ned i hænderne.
DVer Svarj Rsnim'p^el,then WiKkLke( talWe' oVm,O abt, Telt Hti^l*fpæl$diWgWt Guaheléd p_å en Sdum neonB-,e.l-CscoonteGr kuwnneR maxrkere bslVutn*iznSgent pLå dwe_rXes huisAt*oérUiev. WZicnFni,esz lbiv cv(aBr Gbceg$yóndtH som dwen !ulttimaétiCvFe h$j.erctWexstoTrgegr jf'oTrc &Marxe'n. MYeVn Qmedq tiden,J m&etdv Winngives indrze sl^yhsp lswom géuOiZdLe,l Yhua$v^de Ma,rlenu qfoLrmYåeKt ZaDt mFe,jsSler deJ ^fIlMe!séte( qaPfX ndFew grim^meS dAeleS .vhæk.P NLu jkunqne_ Bhun Zklu!n tvæ'nkce QpNå dBeN siKdzsKtue Ftre !uugerr. DeF hIaHvdRek Lspkaændt(eZs fmUere,p e!n^d édjeh yha,vSde) IgyjboXrtZ Ai alJle WiAnn_ilefsy b'aurndomsårF (tilsammen.( XHvis Yde*tJ vær!ste Vs)kuwlwle QsRkJe,l hvoFrdqan v$ilqle. CMlaMrexn scåO ukruUnneI xlevej rmUejdU s*igp Qseljv, nårx !hunY zvidHst(eF,k atR en afV henDde(s) siSdshtée yha$n.dliVn$gTer NsIoIm WYinnideAs ,mvorH havédeJ HvJæreZtz aTt sæuttqe Qiqlbd( FtfiXl dhZeOnad.es d^rdømme? GDeRt dvMaNr cmjenviUng.en,d apt deXr'es hi)s(thoLriUeh $sk(ulle v,æZrVeN qen tprbiu&mf,A Yhvor Winngitew b&l_ev $dseDn tbedksqtre GiN sni_na bk$lOaPs&seO frha EllVl$iVott BHay 'AUcLa'dóemy FolgT t^oLgf på QStkanford,M &ik!kJe Zkmæimkpedpe for ns^iyt bldizvI iw en op,erraptiyonRssJtVueG. M_areón tUø^rMre*dDe ^tjåNrervn_e spLå kkSi!n&dGerlne væku mUeud éækr'mXeMt akf siwn .trBøcje.p PMå mdjeIt senseUsGtfeK cvCaéry hun .bZehg,ynydt a)tr f'osrbSeróedqec sigp pBå denP *int*etnrsVe De,nIsohmhepdt,' QsLom hsurn viéd&streq,P mhzuan villeb ifKølxe,) !når WÉiqnn'izeI toYg& af sVt^ed fpOåG ÉcollTege. pM&en vaRt$ jmBistxeF si'nU ódpa.tt_e_r htSilé Xcol$lesgWea jvi&llAe* iNkkeÉ viæ(rkeY 'nogZeétV i jforshoJldk tiDlb iatr bJl$ivwe optsJluBgt af_ ksorgw Z-V Yigfehn.

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1
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MgaXren
TRE UGER TIL ANSØGNINGSFRISTEN FOR TIDLIG OPTAGELSE PÅ STANFORD
Maren Pressley havde gået rundt på gangene på Elliott Bay Academy i Seattle flere gange om ugen i de sidste mere end seks år, men normalt gjorde hun det i sin rolle som Alicias personlige assistent og opfyldte de mange frivillige forpligtelser, som hendes chef ikke havde til hensigt at gøre selv. Faktisk kunne Maren nok tælle på to hænder det antal gange, hun havde optrådt på campus blot som Winnies mor. I modsætning til de fleste af de andre EBA-mødre havde Maren meget lidt fritid, og når det lykkedes hende at få et par minutter til sig selv, var hun utilbøjelig til at bruge dem på at stikke næsen i Winnies akademiske sager. Det havde hendes datter godt under kontrol.
Men klokken syv i morges havde Maren modtaget en indkaldelse fra studievejlederkontoret. Det var en anmodning - eller var det et krav - om, at både Maren og Winnie skulle mødes med Winnies studievejleder samme morgen. EBA-mødre havde ofte spekuleret i, at skolens syv studievejledere havde stort set ukontrolleret magt til at sortere eleverne ind på eliteuniversiteter. På Back to School Night havde Maren overhørt en gruppe forældre udveksle historier om at droppe alting, når college counseling-kontoret ringede, uanset om de var teknologiske titaner midt i forhandlinger, læger, der foretog en rutinemæssig operation, eller endda, næsten utroligt nok, en velhavende fraskilt kvinde, der skulle have foretaget en ny operation af skamlæberne. (At være stort set usynlig på EBA havde sine sjove fordele.) Så Maren mente, at hun skyldte Winnie at dukke op denne morgen. Hun kiggede på uret på vej ind på kontoret og håbede, at uanset hvad grunden til mødet var, kunne det blive løst hurtigt, så hun kunne komme i gang med at arbejde på Alicias enorme to-do-liste for i dag.
Da Ma$ren égikj inLdk ppåq *Ms. LÉaswHsonUsr k*oqnto!r, ÉvarQ tWinnie^ kallieraerde dDegré,, si(ddeCncdeM pMåH (kiaPnJten aff khcendLesó _shtGo$l mpeida sWit* ^lUasnag'e bpléonZdmeÉ AhåSrS tPrukkevtn ytsilCbaUgep bi )en rnodettH k^nOoldv. ^MWarNen ÉbFe'mæcrókede,r GaOty WingnOiÉeG WscticrJreFdieR ^pGåQ vægmgeCnR me,db WlænxgsJelx 'i øsj&neÉne, odg fóuWl!gmtZe hendQes bli)kb Rt*iCld den vmióftuel za'fy lcozlle_geplxaÉkwaAter og vizmjpDlmerf, djeTr( jdVangnede et! pHavtcuh_wMorkk aaf gvrVønÉn.e Fkvayrtper!eMr,ó ógotZis&k a(rBkAi_tVekNtduFrn jog$ zswerIi,øseó studereéndceU iiN éallReG Of)ormleZra, CstIørVrexlFser Vog YfKarUvceTrO.& !"UHUejy, miss xLva^wQsoHn,é jjemg vh'eZd_dkeérM XMlaMrsehn ^PwrWeTsBslteOy. Vi mNødteÉsn scidXste Sfovr^år.x"S AMa)reSn g(av QrXåddDgyiaveArezn* hWånden og pgleYd indZ p&åT jdejn' vlUePdige pl)aPdsq vedT sivdeJnN catfC YWTiSnjni(e.b
"Ja," sagde fru Lawson med et voksende smil. "Jeg kan stadig ikke tro, at du er gammel nok til at være Winnies mor." Hun vendte sig mod Winnie. "Du er så heldig. Min mor fik mig som 43-årig, og folk har altid troet, at hun var min bedstemor. Det var så pinligt! Jeg mener, bortset fra den måde, I to klæder jer på, kunne I sagtens være søstre."
"Hvis jeg havde en mønt..." Winnie grinede.
Som 35-årig var Maren udmærket klar over, at hun stak ud på EBA: eliteforberedelsesskolens udgave af en øm tommelfinger. I Seattle med høj indkomst var de fleste mødre på hendes alder stadig i gang med at amme babyer eller jagte småbørn. Selv om Maren forsøgte ikke at gøre opmærksom på sig selv, adskilte hendes forholdsvis unge hud hende fra de andre mødre på EBA's seniorer, hvoraf de fleste var en generation ældre. Men uanset hvilken lille fordel Maren fik med sin naturlige glød, mistede hun hundrede gange mere med sin åbenlyse mangel på nogen af Seattles subtile tegn på status. Elektriske luksusbiler. Sportstøj kombineret med designerhåndtasker. Prestigefyldte faglige grader, som man kan bruge i en afslappet samtale, helst i stenografi ("Min marketingprofessor på Kellogg plejede at sige...") eller, endnu bedre, i akronym ("Da jeg gik på HBS..."). Maren kunne næsten ikke vente til det kommende forår, hvor Winnie og Brooke, Alicias datter, ville blive færdiguddannet fra EBA, og Maren kunne se dette sted forsvinde i bakspejlet for altid.
M(sr LawXskon drrejede påT bQruskpéierci,ngeny iY usgiBt QøHrie.r "HSå hmeyM, fjhaM. Så t.n.. ujaedgn hCaMr fJået taiBlq orpVgaveg Hat ovFerbyriéngge nocgleb, aFh, .vRaKn)skseélAi(geU éogk Dprfejss!e*rKegndqeG cnyh*eFderp.I"_
Hendes defaitistiske tone virkede på Maren som uoverensstemmende med den "Vi gør dine drømme til virkelighed"-stemning, der herskede på college-rådgivningskontoret. "OKAY?" Maren stak sine forhårede hænder ind under lårene og trykkede sine klipede negle ned i de smagfulde uldbukser, som hun havde købt i Value Village sidste år, da hun afleverede en gigantisk ladning af kasserede genstande fra Alicias og Brookes garderobeskabe. Selv om det nogle gange krævede al hendes viljestyrke, var Marens politik med hensyn til aflagte tøj fra sin arbejdsgiver streng - som i aldrig nogensinde at gøre det, selv ikke for Winnie.
Den eneste gang, hun havde brudt denne regel, var i Winnies niende klasse, kort efter at hun var begyndt på EBA. Winnie havde tigget Maren om at lade hende beholde en af Brookes udtjente ting med mærkerne på stadigvæk - en sød, lyserød og eftertænksomt slidt sweatshirt. Allerede næste dag havde hun haft den på i skole, men i det øjeblik hun kom ind ad døren efter træning i crosscountry, havde hun taget den ud af sin sportstaske og skåret den i stykker. Det var omkring den tid, hvor Brooke uforklarligt var begyndt at isætte Winnie efter flere års tæt venskab. Maren havde forstået, at tingene ikke var så godt mellem dem på det tidspunkt, men hun havde aldrig kendt Brooke som ondskabsfuld. Tilsyneladende var Winnie også blevet overrasket.
"Hvilke nyheder, Ms. Lawson?" Winnie spurgte sin rådgiver.
Men$s Lde BfoVrItOs)atBtXei med at* ,ventLe! Dpå, Msc. L^awsPonM,B Mmenus hNun blaOndFeUdCeW fpaRpUirer $ogé urn&dgvixku TdjerÉes bli_k&ke,F holYdzt cMareDn Bsilt udtrUyAk !nQe'u(tralFtY ogt hóoylfdt Qsin kropws^holdnHingé ptå XdyenK annsOtjænxdigec ómå*deR,Y usomI UhQenTdes wmoirg havde! lSær,t QhXeBnde !i dheI kvæQleOnd$e) sLpiwse_sale i h.eónpdnes ^biarnhdxoMmxsChjjem Cotg ic)o_u(n'trykylubM, &mlå_sRkle d.ecn wensenstfe Plpedktion, Nde,rk fstadig ktjente& ChuenVde Hfxrva( )dXe_tz HlaDntgva&rgiLgea VfKorfholbd, hjuni TvaZrb PbblevOetc nskiltW JfTrja.Y
Ms Lawson vippede hovedet op, som om hun konsulterede en teleprompter på loftet. "Nå, øh, ser du..." Hun skubbede ærmet op og afslørede en lille sort sommerfugletatovering på indersiden af sin underarm. "Fire atletikstuderende - faktisk en EBA-rekord! - har forpligtet sig til Stanford. Nu ved jeg godt, at vi har talt om, at Winnie har søgt tidligt ind på Stanford siden sidste år, og fristen er selvfølgelig kun tre uger væk. Men, ja, her er den uheldige del. Vi har været i kontakt med Stanford admissions og har erfaret, at de kun har planer om at optage yderligere én studerende fra EBA i år."