By Ray Dillon
I still heard his boots when I woke up. No smell of pancakes. No morning news. Just squeaking and creaking, old leather boots.
I wished I could just go back to sleep, to keep dreaming, but I knew that wouldn't happen now. I sat up in the bottom bunk and scratched my feet on the thick burgundy carpet. The comforting leather creak was pushed out of my head as a truck boomed down the street. I tried to recall my dream, but couldn't.
Bobby's bunk was at my eye level. Only his hair was poking out of the covers. I shivered hard, grabbed a t-shirt and orange, hooded sweater off the floor, and hurriedly pulled the
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