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Abba’s Dancing Queen yanked Colleen from her nightmare. She resented relinquishing her pillow. Blind from sleep, she patted the dresser, searching for the alarm clock. When her fingers touched it, she moaned, “Five more minutes.” Then she hit the snooze button and cocooned herself in her comforter.
But the nightmare returned filled with hurricane-spawned tornadoes that devoured buildings and trees. Splintered wood stabbed her. Concrete slabs crushed her. In terror anew, she bolted up in her bed. Then the room’s serene but strange décor filtered into her slumberous brain. Her brow furrowed, and she did a double take.
This wasn’t her room, at least not in 2010.
Eight-track tapes littered the dresser. A rabbit-ear antenna sprouted from the TV. A bright yellow phone on the nightstand sported a rotary dial.
She read the tapes and her jaw dropped. Captain & Tenille. Bee Gees. Linda Ronstadt. Rod Stewart. Queen. Billy Joel. Barry Manilow. Elton John.
Before she could figure out what this meant, Rhonda popped into her room. Her college roommate’s eyes danced, and her long hair was feathered like one of Charlie’s Angels. She looked to be twenty-something, not the fifty-something she should be. Rhonda shouldn’t be in her room at all. She hadn’t seen the woman in almost thirty years, not since she’d stolen Gary.
Rhonda sauntered over and shook her shoulder. “Sleeping Beauty, you’d better get up. Don’t you have early class today?”
Colleen blinked at the ghost. She rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hand but the vision remained. Nothing was making sense.
On a gulp she asked, “What class?”