CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Tom Sawyer didn't much like thinking of Rebekah. Didn't much like remembering her face. But when he slept, it wasn't like he had an option. Most his dreams were the same. Dreams were shitty things. Too much imagination. Tom had never considered himself a fanciful person. Some people hated black and white. He preferred it to color. Color was distracting;color hid its meanings. He was a man of the dust and the dirt and the trees and the churning rivers coming from melted snowdrifts in mountains.
He was not a fanciful man.
And yet the dreams always came, regardless of his preference. He could still remember everything about her. Her smile, the way she'd twist a strand of hair around one finger when she was lost in thought. The way her brow would scrunch, as it had since sh
