"Wahhhh… Mommy, my mommy, I miss you." Jamie hugged the blanket tight and sobbed even harder.
Poor kid—crying that hard, you'd think she'd lost her mother.
Barry had always been good at reading people.
He walked to the rim of the blown-out hole and peered down at the firelight. The car that had exploded was empty—the man in the white hood was nowhere to be seen.
Dream logic allowed all sorts of weirdness. In a dream, logic isn't strict; once you master the dream's rules, the wildest imaginations can appear as real things.
Still, the hooded man surprised Barry.
The earlier attack clearly hadn't hurt him.
And now his silhouette had vanished again. Barry extended his sensing around the area but couldn't detect where the man had gone.
This guy wasn't very powerful inside the dream—he could barely keep himself stable in it. That's why Barry's strikes hadn't had the expected effect. It's hard to hit someone who keeps flickering between logging in and dropping out.
Jamie cried for a long while, and the bare little room slowly calmed her down. Barry's kind behavior earned her trust.
"Thank you for protecting me, Uncle," Jamie said, wiping her tears.
Barry opened his mouth wide—so wide it might swallow a child—and replied in a slow, toothy voice, "You're welcome. Call me Uncle Barry."
Then he asked, "What's your name, sweetie?"
"Jamie. I'm Jamie." She lifted her face and said it earnestly.
"As a welcome gift for meeting you," Barry said, putting a hand in his mouth and pulling out a tiny chibi straw-man doll. He handed it to Jamie. "Hold onto this little scarecrow. It'll keep nightmares away."
"Thank you, Uncle Barry." Jamie accepted the gift. Barry stroked her head with a smile, then dissolved into fragments and vanished.
The next morning, Jamie woke groggy, pulled back the covers, and froze. A goofy, ugly-headed little scarecrow grinned up at her.
"Oh my God! My dream came true."
She squeezed the doll to make sure it wasn't a hallucination. She could still remember last night's nightmare clearly—especially the white-hooded man and the odd Uncle Barry.
"Woof! Woof! Woof!"
A golden retriever prowling the floor barked at the little scarecrow.
"Shut up! Quiet." Jamie scolded the dog, pointing at its big dog head.
…A tiny hairpin she'd picked up earlier, a few strands of blond hair, and a hand-drawn portrait of Carrie by Barry himself—those were the materials Barry had to work with.
Thanks to his sharp intellect and a little power, Barry could handle most challenges. He hadn't needed to use that particular ability in a long time; he hoped he hadn't grown rusty.
Weird murmurs echoed through the room—soft whispers and half-formed words lingering in the shadows. Barry lit the gathered materials. As the flames licked them, ash rose in thin tendrils. He sat amid the smoke, guiding it into himself.
The imagined scenes began to clear. Information revealed itself little by little.
"Diary, diary, tell me everything. About Carrie White—her personality, her likes, friends, life… and what she most longs for."
During the brief burn, Barry scribbled furiously, leaving page after page of notes in the diary.
Mother. Isolation room. The Bible. People.
Those were the key words.
And the answer Barry wanted most:
—Carrie, what do you desire most?
—"I want to be a whole person."
Perfect. Another one who wanted to be human.
Barry had lived through plenty. He'd developed a special kind of confidence about 'being human.'
Unapologetically, he considered himself something of an expert at it.
So far he'd already helped two lost girls take major steps toward becoming whole people.
Flipping through the diary, Barry now had a clearer picture of Carrie's life and family.
Carrie's main problem came from her mother, Margaret White's extreme control. Margaret, a Bible-quoting devotee, hadn't gained wisdom from scripture; instead, she'd grown paranoid and irrational.
Because of her own experiences, Margaret controlled Carrie tightly—even forbidding her social life. If Carrie violated her rules, she'd be confined to a solitary room.
Her mother's obsession warped Carrie's personality, depriving her of important life experiences and stunting her growth into a complete person.
Barry suspected Margaret read a warped version of the Bible—either a fake text or an interpretation bent by her own biases. That had led her down a dangerous path.
Wrong upbringing can push a sapling that should grow healthy straight toward self-destruction.
Closing the diary and opening it again, the pages of "Barry's Diary" turned into a strange little book of ghost stories.
On the last page of Carrie's record: a bloodstained Carrie, striking a wild, triumphant pose as she descended into the open street. Fire and collapsing buildings burned in the background.
She faced forward, arms outstretched to the sky, the ground cracking beneath her feet. Her look was scornful and exultant—untamed and fierce. Her power was unmistakable; she could shred an enemy to nothing.
Raw, domineering magic seemed to form tangible flames around her body—just a thought or a glare could unleash energy lethal enough to take a life.
Holy crap—such a powerful scene even got Barry pumped up.
"My team needs talent like this!"
If he could recruit Carrie, Barry would gain a huge advantage—his grand plan would jump forward several levels.
Staring at the image of Carrie, Barry's heart burned hotter. He had to help her become whole—and willing to join his team to share in the cause of great human compassion.
With the crucial intel, his own cunning, and growing mastery of dream-space abilities, Barry felt confident he could solve Carrie's life problems.
Whether it was family hardship, daily pressures, or obstacles on her path to being human, he believed he could conquer them all.
In the short time since getting the info, several strategies had already come to his mind—that's what being a high-level player looked like.
"Carrie—since you wrecked my Armani, you'll pay the price!" Barry snapped the diary shut and began to plan and refine his approach.