The boy lay in the grass, eyes half-closed, enjoying the warmth of the sun upon his body. A squirrel chittered. Footsteps sounded nearby, followed by a low exchange of voices, then passed on, fading into the distance. The world lapsed into silence.

The boy lay where he was, one arm flung carelessly across the ground and the other arm cushioning his head. He could feel the rough grass poking up through his fingers and the sun heating his skin. I should move, he thought, but his fingers did not so much as twitch. He felt drowsy and thought about yawning, but did not yawn. Lying very still, he thought he heard a faint meow on the nonexistent wind.

A cat? he thought. He had always wanted a cat, but his mother would never let him. The grass beside him rustled. The boy listened, eyes closed. He imagined the cat venturing closer, staring curiously at him with large green eyes. He wanted to open his eyes to see if she was really there, but they seemed to be held fast with glue. Instead, he took his imagination further. In his mind’s eye, he saw her stand undecided, tail-tip waving back and forth, for the longest time. Then he made her suddenly decide, and turn, light as a feather, to curl up by his side. She was so real, he could almost feel the rise and fall of the furry little body nestled beside him.

I want to pet her, he thought, but his hand remained stoically stagnant in the grass. The heat was beginning to burn his arm. He thought he could still feel it, the ghost of a little body beside him. He tried again, and his arm refused to move.

The boy gave up. It was better this way anyhow. When his hand touched empty air his fragile dream bubble would pop, and then he would lose even the phantom creature he had managed to capture. Lying as he had for the past twenty minutes in the grass, the boy’s breathing deepened as he relaxed and slipped off into sleep.

He woke with a chill. The sun hung low on the horizon and most of the field lay in shadow. His eyes darted first to the small patch of grass just beside him. Nothing was there. He sighed. Wishful thinking, after all. Shaking out his rumpled clothes, he stood and stretched, then began heading towards home, remnants of warmth still clinging to his limbs.

He did not notice the two stray strands of gray fur that fluttered from his shirt, nor did he notice the slight dent in the grass in a space he had perceived as empty.