“Lastic.” 

Is someone calling my name? What do you want? Can’t you see I’m dreaming here?!

“Lastic!” They said with (a little) more aggression in their voice.

Okay, you’re just being rude now. I raised my hand as if to wave them away.

My bed made a creak as the person's weight shifted onto it and I heard their light breaths. Did they lean in to get closer to my ear? I hear them suck in some air. Were they storing it for something? The next thing I knew, the person shouted with all their might,

“Lastic Neveland, GET UP!”

I quickly sat up, and frantically looked around my room. My eyes were still blurry with crust, so it took some time for me to see. 

Did I have some type of alarm in my brain? 

Then, I saw him, with his big blue eyes, small round head, and curly dirty blond hair. He was no less than 6 centimetres away from me. 

Without a moment's hesitation, I lifted my hand and pushed him away. I straightened up and rubbed my temple in displeasure.

“WHAT THE HELL BENNY?!” I yelled, as soon as I fully recognized his (infuriating) face.

“What? You’re the one who told me to wake you up if you were late.” He said crossing his arms, he looked half annoyed with me and half pleased with himself.

“Well, you still shouldn't YELL IN PEOPLE'S EARS!” I yelled back.

After shouting some more, I re-listened to what he said—I didn’t know if I heard him right. I stuck my pinky in my ear, twisting it.

“Um, I might be losing my hearing, so could you say that one more time?” I say looking at him blankly.

He giggled to himself,

“Told you to wake up, should’ve listened to me.” He shook his head while clicking his tongue in disapproval as he walked out my door.

The moment it closed I scurried out of my sheets to look outside my window—the sun was shining brightly. It was morning...

“Crap, I’m dead!” I hurried out of my PJ’s and out of my room door (almost tripping on the pile of my unwashed laundry in the process). I managed to change before I ran down the stairs, through the kitchen (to say goodbye to Benny and Mr. & Mrs. Peterson), and out the front door.

My pace didn't slow down after that. It was like I was a horse with the amount of dirt I’d kicked up behind me as I zoomed past the houses and market stands of the village.

Then, suddenly, I was in front of the bakery. 

The place I worked at.

It had a timber frame, made of wood and stone. The roof was thatched, and the panels that did not carry loads were filled with wattle and daub. It felt warm and always smelled of fresh bread (obviously since it was a bakery).  

I trudged up the stone steps of the old building and pushed open the wooden double doors.