In his dream, he sat in the boat, floating in the middle of a river so endlessly wide it seemed more like an ocean. He was alone; the seats behind and in front of him were empty.
He knew he had to row, but an invisible crowd screamed and jeered from… somewhere, breaking his concentration. That didn’t matter.
He had to row or other boat would break ahead and he would lose. He made to grab his oar, but looking down, he saw it had vanished.
Gulping down panic, he looked around as the river grew wider and the screams grew louder. He was in a boat with no oar, no cox to steer and he was – sinking?
Tyson sat up in bed, breathing hard, listening to the alarm clock beeping obnoxiously next to his ear. Not in a boat, he told himself. Not in a boat, in bed. Not sinking, not going to drown.
Not the race, just a dream. Just a dream.
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