The dream was the Lace. He was the Lace. It was hell. It was the dreamt security system. It was Adam’s scream. It was his last forest dying. It was his father’s battered body. It was his mother’s grave. It was his friends leaving in Gansey’s old Camaro for a year’s trip without him. It was Adam sitting with him in the labyrinth in Harvard telling him that it was never going to work. It was tamquam, marked unread.
