A swarm of locusts fills your vision. Thunderclouds cover the bedroom ceiling. Sweats drips from your forehead, chest and hands. You have trouble breathing. The walls around you bend and twist. You cover your eyes, but the scenes play out with the same realer-than-real intensity. An audience somewhere is clapping. The windows of your bedroom disappear into blackness, and 100 stamp-size televisions appear, each one reprising a moment of your childhood: the exact lyrics of a song on the radio you heard once when you were two years old, or the color of your socks at a kindergarten birthday party, or the timbre of your grandfather's voice. This scene bleeds into a darker one of demons, and daggers, and devil armies. You want to get away, but you cannot. You cannot wake up—you cannot move your body. You are Shea Prueger, and you are stuck here for 48 hours.