Back at the diner. Back in front of that mirror, across from that huge clock... back with that oddly romantic sorta music - some song Ben couldn't name.

This dream was the most frequent, and Ben didn't know why. Couldn't say whether it was luck - good or bad - or chance, or his own intention that kept bringing him back to this place. He didn't learn anything new from it as far as he could tell, was no closer to solving the mystery of the two men who'd soon be sitting together at the table behind him.

And he was certainly no closer to figuring out who the preacher was; the one who inevitably appeared just after he did and sat down on the next stool. They never looked at each other directly, only in the wide mirror above the counter.

If he was honest, Ben didn't give a damn about the two men. He knew, he felt, that the preacher might be the more important part of this dream. Or maybe he had it all wrong. Maybe the two guys in the background mattered, and some weird religious guilt kept putting the preacher there. Ben didn't really think he had religious guilt, but dreams are strange that way.

Whatever it was, and however important the preacher might be, Ben decided that this time, he was at least going to find out about him.

Like clockwork, just when Ben expected it, the door chime sounded.

There was an awareness in the air, tingling at the base of Ben's spine, as the tall figure walked up to him, stood a little to his right and behind him, before he sat down at the counter about a yard away.

The waitress set down a cup of coffee in front of the new arrival too, just as she had in front of Ben a minute ago, just as she did each single time he dreamed this dream. They didn't need to order any. She sure didn't give a damn if they wanted any.

Ben decided he'd had just about enough of dreams where he had no control. He didn't turn his head when she poured the coffee, but when he raised his face once she'd shuffled off, his eyes met the preacher's in the big mirror.

This was new. They'd never looked up, at one another, at the same time. And now, it was like they couldn't stop.

Ben straightened up unconsciously, as if in church and afraid of being told off for slouching. There was something... off about that preacher. And he was sure now that he was there for a reason; not just some passerby in this weird dream of his.

The preacher held his eyes, a small frown between his brows as if he was trying to figure out why Ben was there. As if it was his dream and Ben was intruding on it.

That was a silly thought, and Ben snorted softly before picking up the coffee and taking a sip.

"You've been here before," the preacher said in a deep, gentle voice.

Ben nearly dropped the cup, spluttered hot coffee everywhere. People - except that kooky waitress - didn't talk in this dream. Didn't talk to him. What was going on?

"Yeah," he said. "It's my own darn dream, ain't it?"

The preacher's frown vanished, and his full lips turned up in amusement. "Really? I would have sworn it was mine."

Now the frown was on Ben's face. He swivelled around on the stool, stared at the preacher. "Look, I don't know why I keep comin' here. Or why you do, for that matter."

The preacher, assessing Ben as if he was trying to figure out whether he was telling the truth, sighed. "That's a shame. I was hoping you might be able to shed some light on this."

Ben stared at him. "Say, this ain't right. You never talk to me."

"Dreams aren't set in stone. You can change them, you know."

Ben nodded. "All right. What's your name?"

"Justin Crowe."

"Where are you from?"

A pause. "I live in Mintern, California." The preacher smiled. "Do I get to ask you any questions?"

"Shoot." Ben folded his arms in front of his chest, suddenly uncomfortable about his ragged, dirt-stained clothes. This was turning out to be some weird dream for him to care what he looked like.

"Who are you?"

"Ben Hawkins. I'm..." Ben stopped there, with a feeling he shouldn't tell the man too much too soon. "I live on the road since my ma died."

"I'm sorry," Brother Justin said with genuine compassion.

Ben wanted to shrug it off, say he didn't care either way, but he found it hard to discount this man's kindness like he so easily brushed off everyone else's. "I'm all right," he simply muttered.

"Yes," said Justin, sounding deep in thought.

That was the moment the other two men entered the diner. The soldier's boots clanked on the floor like the beating of a heart.

Ben knew this was his chance. He'd learned something about the preacher, maybe he could learn something about those other men now. He peered at Brother Justin, who was looking at him. "Maybe we oughtta..." Ben started, tilting his head towards the newcomers.

"No."

"This dream is gonna run out of time any moment, you know that," Ben cautioned. "That window is gonna come blastin' in and..."

Brother Justin reached out, gripped Ben's wrist and pulled it towards his chest. "We're already out of time, Ben." He held on to the thin wrist, his large hand warm and steady around it.

Ben felt right strange. He'd never been sick, but he felt the way folks described a fever. He was glad he was sitting down, 'cause his legs were funny. Shaky. He was shaking all over.

Brother Justin stood, still holding Ben's wrist, and stepped closer.

Ben tried to pull his hand from the other's grasp, thought that maybe somehow, the preacher was making him feel sick. But the grip was too tight, and Ben's voice didn't want to work. He looked up into the other's face - familiar from all these darn dreams as if he'd seen it every day - and thought that there was something spooky about those dark eyes looking so kind, so soft, when that jaw was set tight and the man stood over him like a hawk.

"Out of time," said Brother Justin regretfully, and lifted a hand to cup Ben's cheek. His hand was warm. So warm.

Ben gasped, forgot for a moment that he hated people touching him, leaned into that palm which fitted around his cheek perfectly. He had a fleeting thought that maybe, he was being hypnotized, but he didn't feel fear.

"Now," Brother Justin hissed suddenly, blinking as if shaking himself from a dream, but hell, they were already inside one, weren't they?

"What?" Ben's voice sounded slurred to his own ears.

"The window!"

And before Ben's mind could catch up, the explosion happened. He'd forgotten all about it. But he heard it only for a second, it didn't split his eardrums like it usually did. Because the moment it started, Brother Justin wrapped his arms around him, held Ben's head pressed to his chest, covered his exposed ear with one hand, and rested his own cheek on the top of the boy's head.

The whole thing was like distant thunder this time - rumbling and pounding. And screams, very briefly.

Ben's arms came around the other's waist and he held on as glass blasted into the diner, shattered all around them, pearling off his protector like water and tinkling to the wooden floor like broken Christmas ornaments. He felt Justin Crowe's whole body tensing up, shaking like a bow strung too tight. He felt the cloth under his face rough and soothing at once, smelled the other's unfamiliar mingled scents of musk, desert air and a hint of myrrh; he inhaled deeply.

And then it was all over. Already, Ben felt himself slipping back to consciousness, the dream draining away like water off a roof.

"No!" he pleaded.

"Out of time," said the soft voice right against his ear. "But soon, Ben. Soon..."

As Ben woke up, he imagined that just for a moment, he could feel the press of full lips against his temple.