As the last words left the Bulls snout, the sun broke over the sandstone horizon. It shown into
the small face opening of Andy's sleeping bag, and like an alarm clock, the boys eyes flung open under
the first beams of sunlight.
He looked around startled. His parent's sleeping forms laid near by. He wasn't enclosed by water
and it was air that filled his lungs.
Andy lay there for over an hour, thinking about what must have been a dream. Yet unlike any
dream, when he closed his eyes he a vivid rush of memories flooded his mind. He looked at his fingers,
yet they carried none of the Bull's slime. He felt his hair and his cloths, yet everything was warm and
dry.
Logic and ration told Andy it was a dream. It was only a dream. A river bottom created by
imagination... Yet the Bull. The Bull seemed to swim in Andy's mind, flashing his olive gold scales and
staring at Andy with that giant gleaming eye every time he closed his eyes.
Andy slipped out of his sleeping bag and walked to the shore. The water lapped over his bare
feet and the muddy sand squeezed up between his toes. He looked out at the river, no longer lit in
peaceful moonlight but burning in the brilliance of sunlight.
As he stood, toes in the river, the smooth surface of the center of the water broke. Olive golden
scales shown briefly in the sunlight.
The boys eyes widened, and his face hardened. Suddenly he knew that was no dream. And
suddenly he knew he had a story to tell.