The Five Times I Met Myself Read Online Free Page A

cycles, Brock. That’s all.”
    “What about the workers down there who can’t wait a few cycles?”
    “They can wait.”
    “No, they can’t.”
    They stood and stared at each other just like they had from the time Ron was old enough to stand. Both of them absolutely determined to win. When they were little they proved themselves with fists, then sports, and now the corporate arena. After thirty seconds, Ron broke the silence.
    “We are making this temporary change, Brock.” Ron glared at him. “I asked you for this meeting to inform you, not to ask your permission.”
    His brother turned and strolled back toward his putter.

    After a late dinner and an even later cup of coffee, Brock went to bed ready to try lucid dreaming. It was a great excuse to get his mind off his meeting with Ron, and he wanted to be ready the next time his dad showed up in his dreams. Throughout the day he’d practiced the conscious techniques that should give him control of his subconscious world. Time to see if they would work.
    Sleep came quickly and so did a dream. He sat in his kitchen, but it wasn’t the right color. The beige was too dark, and the chair he sat in was a recliner, not a table chair. What had the book said? Right. Look at a tangible object, like a clock. He did, and the one on the wall shimmered, then faded, then vanished.
    Yes! This was it. There was no doubt in his mind he was fully conscious, but this wasn’t real. Clocks didn’t disappear in the real world. This was definitely a dream. Next step, try to create something out of nothing.
    He focused on the table and imagined a slice of Black Forest cake with a dollop of white-chocolate macadamia-nut ice cream on the side. Instantly the ice cream appeared, then started to fade. Brock breathed in deep—was he really breathing?—and focused on the image of the dessert. Again, the cake and ice cream appeared and this time they stayed solid.
    He took a bite and knew he was ruined for real Black Forest cake for the rest of his life. This dream-cake version was perfection. He lifted another bite to his mouth and started to chew, but suddenly the taste overwhelming his taste buds wasn’t cake, but squash—the food he loathed most in the world.
    Brock spit the yellow mass of mush out of his mouth, pushed away from the table, and tried not to retch. A moment later he woke, his eyes watering. Obviously this lucid dreaming would take some work.
    The next night he flew himself into a wall of the Grand Canyon, but hey, he flew! And controlled it. Mostly. The night after that he couldn’t find the lucid state, but on Thursday night he found his way in again, and after he arrived he upped the stakes. If he was going to be able to control the dream with his dad, he needed to practice interacting with people—people that would set his adrenaline pumping. Strange thing was, since Morgan had given him the book on Sunday, the dream about his dad had not returned.
    He recreated a scene from college where he’d been jumped by three frat boys during the fall of his junior year. The whap of their tennis shoes on the gray pavement behind him sounded like tiny firecrackers, but before they reached him, he imagined a thick walking stick in his hand, and it appeared. He spun and whipped the stick in a tight circle.
    “It’s not going to happen this time, boys.”
    “What’s not going to happen?” the tallest of the three said.
    “You’re not going to bruise two of my ribs and borrow my wallet.”
    “What?” The stocky kid to the right looked hurt. “We wouldn’t do that.”
    The third, the kid in the middle, grinned. That’s when they attacked.
    Brock focused and the three thugs moved toward him in super slow motion. By the time they reached him, he had strolled out of the way, then watched them spin and stare at him in amazement.
    Stocky kid gaped. “How did you move like that?”
    Brock started to answer but woke before the words could leave his mouth.
    The sound of robins