Page 114 of Dream Chaser
The next morning, I have five reactions to that story from girls I don’t even talk to, venting about the game.Oops.
I also have a DM from Ava that just reads:Subtle.
I don’t respond. I mean, maybe she thinks I’m trying to stir up shit that we’ve been forbidden to stir up? This is perfect since now I don’t have to make a list of whose life I’m going to ruin for telling Ava.
Morning two, I beat him by posting first.
I post a video that was supposed to be Wile entering the lift—customized accessibility solutionis just too long a phrase—but ended up with me begging him to get in, and then tossing in some jerky and tricking him.
Caption:When all else fails: jerky.
His story? A picture of the gym, but not just any gym—the empty, echoing kind. There’s a lone barbell in the middle of the mat. A towel draped on the edge.
Caption:Cleared my head. Miss the noise.
Miss the noise? Is that me?
I stare at the screen until Wile licks my knee, and then I snap out of it.
With nothing to do today at the greenhouse, I spend the day planning what equipment I need to make this merch idea. Heat presses, vinyl cutters, sublimation printers, and laugh at the name of another printer everyone says is expensive but worth it—the DTF. I have a list of twenty kids who our coaches in varsity sports think have a better chance of being successful in furthering their education, which would change their lives if they continued playing collegiate sports.
I post a video of Blue Valley Publishing as is.
Caption:Time to start something new.
He posts nothing.
And that? That hits.
So my evening post is of the inside of Wile’s crate since he still doesn’t love the whole thing, and I aim to change that. The video shows my artistic vision of a cozy cabin car of an old-fashioned train—warm wood-toned trim, tiny golden sconces (motion-sensor lights, obviously), and a landscape rolling past the “windows” made of soft green fields and blue skies. There’s even a doggy butler in a little conductor hat painted in the corner, holding a menu of treats. A custom treat tray is bolted to the side at perfect Wile height in the shape of a dining car table, complete with a rawhide and a peanut-butter-filled Kong.
Caption:Quiet days make weird art. The Wile Express line to Snuggle City.
And then, at 11:59 p.m.—one minute before the day resets—he posts a black screen. Nothing but a song title: “Scared to Start.”
Him or me?
Day three, I post a selfie. Hair in braids, hoodie zipped, Wile at my feet. I’ve got a power drill in one hand and a defiant look on my face.
Caption:Who needs sleep when you have plans?
His story is of the sky—clouds drifting above the Gulf. No filter, just the natural soft grays and pinks that look like a dream.
He writes:Storm’s rolling in. But it’s still beautiful.
That evening, I post a video of the carriage house with portable spotlights. Mags’s voice is in the background, laughing about how I electrocuted myself twice.
Over it, I write:She lives.
He posts a screenshot of a Spotify playlist titled “Off-Season Vibes.” The first visible track is one I know. “Light On.”
No caption. Just that.
He. Posted. Maggie!
On day four, he posts first—a sunrise over the field I assume he used to practice on in high school, cleats slung over his shoulder. No caption.
I would be lying if I said I didn’t think about what it could mean for over an hour. So long, in fact, that I forgot to post.
