Perhaps that was the answer, and this would all disappear shortly. Yes, that had to be it.
It was only a dream.
Roan reached for the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out a hammer. If he was dreaming, he might as well get the enjoyment of accomplishing a few things from his never-ending list of things to do, like fixing the booth that was separating from the wall.
He made his way out of his office, walking past a surprised Abigail, who glanced down at the hammer in his hands.
“Gonna fix that booth,” he said, gesturing with the hammer.
She raised an eyebrow at him, seemingly surprised by his decision to accomplish something. He shrugged. “Might as well make something happen while I’m dreaming.”
Not that he owed her an explanation. She should know better than to expect one from him, but she’d been helpful when he’d been stuck on the floor, so perhaps he should at least clue her in on the fact that they were stuck in a dream together.
Or maybe she wasn’t even aware of it. Maybe it was simply his dream, and she was only a character in the story.
It didn’t matter.
He was going to fix the booth to pass the time until he awoke.
He made his way over and used the hammer to pull out the nails that had started to slide out of the wall. He carefully pounded them straight again and put them in a new spot before hammering them through the back of the booth into the wall.
This was satisfying, at least.
He tried not to glance over at all the men sleeping around him, because when he did, he had the feeling that this might not be a dream after all—and that was far too unsettling an idea for him to entertain for long.
But they hadn’t woken up when he’d started banging, so it wasn’t that they were really asleep.
He couldn’t think about it, so instead, he hammered all the nails back to where they should have been in all the unoccupied booths. When he got to the booth where Tom and Edgar lay slumped over a table, he stared at the exposed nails for a moment, then stuck his hammer into his pocket and walked away.
No sense in going through the effort of moving them if this was a dream, and he’d wake up in the morning with nothing done. He glanced at the empty booths, their backs firm against the wall again, and smiled in satisfaction at a job well done.
Even if he hadn’t fixed everything, he’d made one thing better.
He looked around the tavern, taking in the dim, cozy room that he spent the vast majority of his time presiding over.
The Lucky Goat was his home, and someone had come into it and turned his sanctuary into a prison.
Beastie let out a whine as she made her way toward the kitchen, and Roan turned to follow her. Abigail was probably there and would let her out, but he was curious if whatever had stopped him from leaving through the front door was also effective on the back. He walked through the swinging door just in time to see Beastie head out the back.
Abigail looked back at him, her eyes bright, and she smiled. “Did you get the booths fixed?” she asked.
“I did.” He nodded toward the door. “That one works for you?”
Abigail nodded in confirmation. “I haven’t tried the gate in the fence, though. I suspect it’ll be the same as the front. I’m just glad that we can let Beastie out.”
Roan grunted. “I’ll try the back gate.”
As he made his way toward the door, Beastie came bounding back with a brightly colored ball in her mouth. Roan knelt as Beastie dropped it at his feet and picked it up to inspect it, dread filling his gut. “This is…” he began, turning to Abigail, who nodded again.
“The same ball,” she said quietly.
Roan stood and tossed the ball back to Beastie, who settled in the corner and began to tear it to shreds.
“I knew this was a dream,” he said.
“I hope it is,” Abigail said quietly.
“You don’t think so?” Roan said. It wasn’t really a question.
