I am in the kitchen of a house. I am standing at the sink watching out of the window above it, enjoying observing some teenagers hanging out in the front yard; if dust and gravel can be considered a yard. There are two teen boys sitting in chairs talking together. A couple more are doing something at what appears to be a garden bed. Maybe they have built it and are continuing to work on their project.

Suddenly, vehicles are pulling up into the yard so quickly that dust begins to swirl like mini storms, causing the teens to start jumping out of the way. There are at least three SUV’s and another two to three black, four door sedans. They all have tinted windows. The inhabitants of the vehicles are getting out fast, as if they have a hostage situation on their hands or are about to enact a raid. They appear to be state officials, a mixture of FBI, Child Protective Services or similar institutions.

“What the hell is going on?” I think.

I turn to look behind me. A family lives in this house. It is not a fancy house. It is poor and as clean as a person can make a home with such shabby provisions. Even with the sparse accommodations, the appreciation and neatness given to this small residence shows that this house is loved.

I do not live here. I don’t know how I’ve come to be here or why. I am inside the house with a woman who is a stranger to me. She is the mother of these teenagers.

I look back out of the kitchen window. Time has turned into compartmentalizations as if the rest of the dream is frozen for a moment, and I stand watching a new scene that is progressing almost in slow motion.

There is a clothesline to the left of the dusty yard. it is set above lush and emerald green grass. Beautiful sheets in a vast array of differing colors are hanging from it, secured with equally colorful clothespins. There are rows and rows of them; purples, blues, reds and pastels of soft lemon and cotton candy shades.

A couple of the woman’s pre-teen daughters are laughing and dancing inside of the blowing sheets. The girls are unaware of the invasion in progress on the other side of the clotheslines. The many pieces of material keep softly moving in the breeze. For a moment I am mesmerized by the beauty of this colorful scene, the dancing girls and the sound of their free spirited giggling.

The panicked desperation of the mother’s voice snaps me back to reality and time begins to speed up again.

“They are here for my baby! Please, please hurry! Please, please help me!”

I don’t know what to do. I process quickly that these people have come here to take one of her children. Okay. Where is the child? I jump into action.

“Why do they want him?” I frantically ask her as I move towards the living room.

“I don’t know! I don’t know! But they are here for him!”

She is frozen in front of me, and her eyes hold the deepest fear I can imagine. She is small and frail with worn skin on her face; worn skin that comes from long hours of labor, suffering, sacrifice and a life of work. I am filled with compassion, absorbing her weariness and fright.

I see the child playing on the floor with an array of small little cars, toys and blocks. He is around four or five. He has dark hair, and he is built small for his age. He has on blue jeans, a light blue shirt and tennis shoes with Velcro closures. He is completely oblivious to what is going on around him right now. I rush over and softly take his hand.

“Hey! Come with me!” I sing in a happy voice. “We’re gonna play hide and seek!”

He takes my hand and jumps right up. I feel his elation at getting to play with me. I look down, and he is looking back at me with the sweetest smile. He doesn’t make a sound. I am enthralled by his presence. His energy consumes me. There is an acceptance exuding from this child that I have never felt in any human before. He is perfectly calm and unaware of the danger he is in. I sense that even if he was aware, he would still exist inside this ability of intensely calm acceptance. His eyes reflect more wisdom then I have ever witnessed in my life. He is pure love and knowledge.

The boy and I walk quickly to the back bedroom. The authorities are banging on the front door. The mother is biding time.

“I’m coming!” She calls loudly. “Hold on! I’m getting dressed!”

Her voice is shaking, and I know that I must move very swiftly now. Time is of crucial essence. This mother won’t be able to hold them off for long before they kick the door in.

I scan the bedroom for hiding places. There are none. The closet. No hidden compartments. There is just a mattress and box spring set on the floor. We are trapped in this room. My heart is thumping. I have to figure out how to hide this child.

My eyes come to rest on the back left corner where the walls meet. I see a patterning as if I can peel the paint off.

“Come!” I urge the little boy.

The authorities do not waste time. A boom indicates the door has just been crashed in. I can hear the mother screaming. I am racing as fast as I can. I pull the paint back from the corner of the walls. It comes right off, a thick layer of paint that stays in one large piece, almost as if it is a purposeful flap. I glance behind it and see the wooden framing of the house.

“Get in! Hurry!” I urge, helping the boy slip behind the paint flap.

He jumps right in and turns, standing straight between the wooden two by fours of the wall. His arms are relaxed by his sides. He is still silent, looking me directly in my eyes as if to say he is alright to stay in here for a while.

“Don’t make one sound until I let you out, okay?” I instruct firmly.

He continues to silently smile, and his eyes wordlessly tell me he understands everything. He understands all of life. This is why they want him.

They are coming down the hall. I hear their footsteps. Running. I throw the layer of paint back on the wall, pressing it into place as best I can. I am hoping the peeling paint will simply fit into the run down condition of the house.

As they open the bedroom door, I pick up a piece of clothing, pretending that I am merely cleaning up the room. I focus on my breathing as not to give away any knowledge of who they are. I look up and see a woman in a black suit, she has dark hair, parted in the middle and pulled straight back into a tight bun at the base of her head. Her features are so inconsequential to me I cannot describe her. She feels robotic, a clone of every female operative character ever portrayed in an espionage movie. I even expect her to have one of their accents. I suddenly fight an urge to laugh.

She is flanked from behind with authorities wearing black covert operation apparel; gun belts laden with multiple bullet filled clips, thick black pants tucked into boots and matching long sleeved under-armor shirts. Their bullet proof vests are their final layer, along with goggles and shrapnel helmets. I think how ridiculously extreme all of this force is, just to find a child, but I act startled when they come in, jumping back, dropping the shirt I’ve picked up back down to the floor, acting afraid as if I had no idea they were in the house.

My heart is thumping a bit, but I feel more calm and fearless than I had expected I would feel. I am thinking each step through. Do not give indication or look behind me, not even with my eyes. Give no clue that I know where the boy is.

I focus on my thoughts and stay silent.

“Don’t make a sound.” My mind urges him. Somehow I know he can telepathically hear me. “Don’t move an inch. Don’t cough.”

I do feel worry that they will discover him in the wall. I worry that this woman will ask what is behind that large paint patch in the corner, but I am able to focus completely on masking my worry.

“Where is he?” The woman demands.

“Who?” I ask innocently.

She says the boy’s name.

“Oh! I think he went to [so and so’s] house for a play date. What is wrong? Did you talk to his mother? Is he okay?” I feign worry as if I believe they are here to protect him.

The woman is looking at me intensely, and I know she doesn’t believe me. She is trying to read my mind. I feel amused by this. I sarcastically think ‘good luck, lady.’ I am ready for her questions.

“Who are you?” She demands.

“I’m here just helping doing some cleaning.” I cryptically reply not giving up my name.

I do not plan to answer any questions she might ask me next. Fuck her. I do not feel afraid of her. She thinks her mind is stronger than mine. She doesn’t realize that it is not. She does not know the depth of my abilities. I feel confident in myself. I feel protective worry for the child. I know without a doubt that I will fight, even die, to protect him.

My mind focuses back towards the pattern on the walls where the paint has been peeled. I block the woman’s existence in front of me as I focus.

“Do not let them see it.” My mind says. “They will not see it. There are no lines. The lines are invisible.”

The woman heads to the closet rummaging through piles of clothes. I stand still in my spot, compliant.

“I know he’s here somewhere. I know he is.” She is saying.

She surveys the room, and I stay standing quietly, wearing a perplexed look on my face as to reflect my confusion of why they’re here for the boy. She rummages through more of the clothes piles on the floor, poking at them with her heeled foot as if she will discover the boy under one of them.

“I know.” I say, sighing. “There is a LOT to fold in here”.

She is unamused by my attempt at distracting her with humor. Finally she realizes there is no place else in the room to look for him. She stares directly into my eyes. I gaze right back, blocking her attempt to dive into me.

“We will find him.” She firmly informs me.

I fight the urge to play with her. I fight my sarcasm. I am calm inside as I look directly back into her eyes feeling no fear or intimidation.

There is no smirk on my lips, no taunting expression. I too, feel an acceptance of what is and what my own abilities are. I am also aware of the soldiers. I will not be reckless, but even with them, I don’t fear their bullets or the supposed intimidating gear they’ve donned. They feel so insignificant and a waste of space in my current existence.

“Okay.” I agreeably reply to her. “If I see him, I’ll surely let you know.”

I have to get in at least one cryptic moment of sarcasm. We both know I will not tell her. We both know that playing the mind game with me doesn’t work. We have a moment of eye contact dueling, and I let my smile lines soften. I can gaze into her eyes all day. Of course she breaks away first. Naturally. All minions do. Even in her dedication to the dark forces she seemingly serves, she will always cower in the power existing in light. My confidence intimidates her.

They all turn, heading back down the hall to search the rest of the house. I pick up more clothes and continue folding in case they decide to turn around and come back in. I will wait until they leave the premises before we get the boy out of the wall. Then we will figure out what to do with him next.

As I am folding the clothes, I position my body slightly toward the wall. I see there are no paint lines. The wall is perfectly painted into one sheer dried layer.

Relief washes over my body that the paint lines and peeling edges really went invisible. I have a moment of musing how unfortunate it is that we’ll have to ruin the wall by using a sledgehammer to get the boy back out. That will make for some shitty cleanup. I chuckle to myself.

And so ends my dream.