Sacred by Elana K. Arnold

lethargically at first, I found that they were stuck, or shackled, weighed down by the increasing pressure of the sand.
    Sand is like that. A single grain weighs practically nothing; a handful is a pleasant weight in the palm; but combined, the force of all those little granules is overwhelming, desperately powerful, and inescapably heavy.
    My heart began to beat faster; my head thrashed from side to side as I struggled to pull myself out of the mire. The warmth of the sand’s top layer was gone now, its cold, heavy weight pressed on my chest like a hand, and I knew in an instant that I would die there, buried in the sand.
    Was it relief I felt? I think so. The weight of the sand was making it harder and harder to take a breath, and in a moment, the sand would crest over my nose and mouth, making breathing impossible, anyway. I stopped thrashing and lay perfectly still, considering the press of the sand. It was an embrace—that’s what it was, a sweet embrace, an escape, an excuse to stop fighting.
    But as grains of sand began to roll across my face, ensnared in my eyelashes, covering my lips, my heart leapt in fear and protest. Adrenaline coursed through my veins, and I felt myself thrashing against the weight of the sand, struggling to free myself, to sit up, to stand.
    I’d hesitated too long—the sand was overpowering, its weight too much to fight—but I fought anyway and managed to stretch one hand upward. Still, I couldn’t break the surface.
    How far had I sunk? I lost all perspective; was I reaching up or down? Where was I? Could I still feel my feet?
    My desperation was overwhelming. My lungs burned with my final breath of air, and my fingers stretched hopelessly, searching for something, anything, to grab on to.
    And then someone grabbed my hand. The grip of warm, real flesh pulling me to the surface.
    Ronny! My heart soared. My brother, my friend. In my dream state, I forgot for half a moment that he was dead … that his hand would not be warm and strong anymore.
    And then I remembered. This hand could not be my brother’s. I felt tears seep from my still-closed eyes, mixing with the sand that shrouded my face.
    Andy, then, it must be Andy. I forced my fingers to grasp back, and I felt myself being hauled up, felt the sand releasing me begrudgingly.
    Then my arm was free of the sand, and my head emerged next, and my shoulders and my body, and I opened my eyes, blinked away the sand, and smiled up at my savior.
    Green eyes looked down at me, full of concern and another emotion I couldn’t quite name—bright green eyes, the color of life.
    Will.
    A curl of his dark hair fell across his beautiful olive-tinted forehead, and his smile blinded me.
    In my bedroom, my eyes popped open. The overhead light shone down too brightly, and I shielded my eyes against it. I stumbled to my feet and over to my window, yanking the window down, the panels of my curtains falling still as the wind was blocked.
    I was dazed, unstable on my feet. My clock told me it was 2:02 a.m. I shook my head and pushed my hair out of my face. I was still dressed in my jeans from the stable, but I shivered with cold. My dream felt too real—the press of the sand, like the press of death, still lingered on my skin.
    It had been Will. Will had rescued me. What should I make of this?
    Don’t be silly, Scarlett , I admonished myself. It was just a dream. No one is saving you .
    No one was saving me. The truth of these words resounded in my empty chest, and I forced back the uselesssobs that threatened to overtake me. I shook the thought from my head and pulled open the top drawer of my dresser, finding my nightshirt.
    I changed quickly and set the alarm for 6:30, just a few hours away, and pulled back the covers of my bed. Then I switched off the light and stumbled into bed, closed my eyes, and slept again, blissfully dreamless this time.

SIX

    D ay Two of junior year wasn’t all that different from Day One—or from the days that would