OKAY, GIRL, GET A GRIP.

Let's be fair. A little staring is probably inevitable.

Lucid dreams are supposed to be for people in touch with their interior lives. Aren't they?

She's been outrunning hers for so long, she struggles to remember what it sounds like. What it looks like; smells like. She probably couldn't recognize it if it was standing right in front of her.

--But she feels confident it was never quite like this.

Vivid. Present. Physical.

So many individuals, all around her. Smelling of their own travels; the sweat and exertion of too many long days on the road, wafting off too many people to count.

Everything is there in exacting detail, every person with their own olfactory profile.

But it's supposed to be a dream. Her dream. Shouldn't her subconscious be supplying something familiar to her?

Or should it? How would she know, one way or the other?

She has the choice to get more information, though, and she uses it; gets the attention of the man in front of her.

He turns to look at her, curious.

What to ask?

"Excuse me, do you, ah-- ...That is, I'm trying to find--"

"Say no more, young lady," the man says. "I know that look by now. Just keep moving--"

"--You'll be where you need to be in no time."

"Even if I have no idea where that is?" Lacey asks.

He grins, as if delighted she'd ask. "Especially if you have no idea where that is."

"I'm-- not sure I understand."

"Oh, don't worry," he says. "That's quite normal."

'Normal.'

Who in their right mind would call any of this 'normal?'

Her fellow travelers, apparently. She's the only one hesitating. Everyone else moves with purpose, towards a white room she can just barely see through the throng of people.

Everything in it is white. Every container, every scrap of cloth, every surface. Like anything that isn't fabric has been encased in porcelain.

No one else thinks anything of it. They're busy chatting with each other; greeting one another. Treating it like a train station.

Is that what it is? Is that why she's carrying--

Oh.

It's not just any suitcase, is it?

She'd just assumed it was one of her saddlebags. Instead-- this. One of the first gifts Irene had given to her.

She nearly drops it on sight.

Last she saw it, it'd been emptied out, its contents burned. She'd hoped to never see it again.

Now-- here it is.

Because of course it is.