He hadn't once brought up the dreams to Kennah after that - and if she asked he would deny having them. Ryker began to experiment with compounds such as Ritalin, Adderall, Dexedrine, and Desoxyn to stay awake. The café became a daily stop - a few times a day. Kennah and Malcolm took notice of Ryker's new zombie-like-state. He became irritable, rude and had no tolerance for anything.

Ryker stares at himself in the mirror of the bathroom. He opens the mirror to reveal a small cabinet within. His father's pill bottle sits in sight - Dexedrine. He gazes at it for a moment before grasping it, opening the bottle and emptying two pills into the palm of his hand. He shuts the cabinet and stares at himself in the mirror once more. He pops the pills into his mouth, twisting on the tap water, he places his mouth up to the stream to help wash down the tablets. Standing back up, he wipes his mouth and exits the bathroom.

Ryker enters the dim kitchen switching on the light directly above the stove. He hits the on button of the coffee maker and pauses, observing it gradually dripping into the pot. Turning his attention toward the clock, he brushes his hand over his eyes and runs his fingers up through his hair. Its 4:08am, and Ryker knows he needs to keep himself awake if he wants to avoid his dreams. The pills should kick in soon and the coffee will surely help, he thought.

The kitchen would be soundless if not for the soft ticking sound of the clock. Ryker was lost watching each passing second. Eventually the lack of sound from the coffee maker caught his attention. Ryker grabbed a dark blue coffee cup - marked on the side, Men in Blue. It was his father's cup, but it was the only clean one sitting next to a pile of dishes he was supposed to do.

Ryker poured the coffee, leaving it black. He sat at the kitchen table holding the cup in his trembling hands. Ryker shortly fell asleep the coffee cup still in hand. He woke lying flat on the floor of a dirty old warehouse; at this point, he knew he was asleep. Ryker sat up, pinching the edge of his arm, wake up, Ryker, he thought. Still, this dream was different - he could see himself, as before it was more of a movie type dream.

He gazed about the room before getting up onto his feet. The room was empty, soundless - besides the small echo of a leaky tap dripping in the background. He waited for something to happen, something he was unable to control. Still, he merely stood there in that empty room. Eventually, he had enough and began to walk toward the exit, the door was locked from the outside. The dream started to feel more genuine with each passing moment. He steered toward the next door; one that went deeper into the warehouse.

The dreams had never felt like they had this time. He was more in control than ever before. The room was new, the sounds all new. Ordinarily he would see his father enter the building, watch him die, over and over. Now Ryker had no idea what was about to unfold.

He departed the room into a large dusty hallway. Two pairs of footsteps molded into the grime on the floor. Ryker slowly followed them, wondering to himself if those prints did indeed belong to his father. The ear-splitting sound of two cracks hit Ryker like a freight truck. His feet picked up speed heading toward the sound. He couldn't contemplate anything else, he needed to identify what waited at the end of that noise. He had never been on this side of the dreams.

"Shots fired! Shots fired!" rang up and down the long hallway, echoing off every wall. The same path his dream would lead him down. At the end of the corridor he saw, Cruz.

Cruz was a tall man, a bigger build which made it look as if he worked on his body, although it just came naturally. He had salty hair, like Malcolm, and a clean-cut face. He was kneeling over Ryker's father's departed body, blood pooled around them both.

"Ryker!... Ryker!" muffled in the background, as if it wasn't real, it was all in his head, "Ryker!"

He jolted awake spilling cold coffee onto his lap. Regaining his whereabouts, he looked up at his Father, who was very much alive, "What time is it?" He wondered.

"It's twenty after seven in the morning. I'm heading to work, get yourself cleaned up and go to bed." Malcolm wasn't impressed with his son's new behavior, but he was already running late today. He threw some paper towel in the direction of Ryker, "and clean up my table well you're at it kid." He turns suddenly directing himself out the front door.

Rykertakes a quick look at the clock - 7:23am - before snatching the paper towelfrom beneath the table where it had rolled; cleaning up the table and flooring.He plunges his wet jeans to the floor, allowingthem to sit where he formally stood. Ryker grabs a can of soda from outof the fridge, snatching a bag of chipsfrom the counter as well; and makes hisway into the living room.

Malcolm locked the door behind him, his mind concentrating on his concern for Ryker. The day was already going to be tough - being the anniversary of him and his late wife. He contemplated going back inside, in spite of that worry, the time on his watch proved he had to get going. Malcolm staggered down the steps toward his squad car and got inside.

First stop of the day would be the flower shop on 24th street. A few yellow roses waited for him at the front counter.

"Officer Atkinson, I was starting to think you weren't showing today." uttered the man standing beside a stalk of freshly trimmed sunflowers.

"Running a little behind, Mr. Thomas" Malcolm mentioned, picking up the roses and bringing them to his nose to take in their aroma.

Mr. Thomas had been selling Malcolm those yellow roses since his first date with Elizabeth 24-years-ago. A remorseful smile crept across his face. eighteen years of seeing him come in after her death began to be hard to watch.

"They're perfect, I appreciate you having them ready for me." He placed a twenty-dollar bill on the counter as he had done so many times before.

"Anything for my best customer." Mr. Thomas cracked in an effort to lighten the mood.

Malcolm gave him a genuine smile before heading out the door.

The next stop was the graveyard on the other side of town. It sat on the side of the ocean front overlooking a few small islands. The frost had already begun to set in, and the frigid air from the sea helped it along. Malcolm sat beside the cold stone anyway. Elizabeth Ann Atkinson 1978-2000 etched crossways along the stone. Malcolm Andrew Atkinson 1977 - , placed adjacent to hers.

He gently sat the roses in front of the stone, sitting slightly for a moment.

"twenty-four years." He mumbled under his breath, "these past eighteen-years I've been lost, Beth. I just can't figure out how to be his father. I can't seem to push him to better himself, I merely push him away." He sighed feeling helpless. "You would know what to do."

Malcolm's phone begun to ring as he quickly reached to hit the ignore button. "I have to go now. I love you Beth."

The call came from chef officer Seeley. He knew it had to be important, he booked this morning off every year like clockwork. They wouldn't interrupt him if it wasn't. he preceded toward the squad car dialing back his missed call.

"Seeley." he snappishly answered the call.

"It's Atkinson."

"I'm sorry about today." His tone of voice instantly changed, "We got a tip those arms dealers are moving in tonight, early morning. I'm sending you and Cruz down by the old timber warehouse. You need to check how reliable this tip is, then we can move forward with the raid and with any luck catch these bastards."

"I'm on my way in, Chef."

"And Atkinson, I am sorry..."