Mist curls across the panel.
Tile is asleep.
Tile floats sideways into the panel, as though carried by the mist.
There she is.
Tile stands watching the mist depart, now holding a tall staff with a five-pointed star on the top.
Tile is dreaming.
The staff stands on its own, and Tile, now two-thirds the height she was before, clings to the top of it, reaching out with desperation to an apple that hangs in the air above a basin of water.
This is her dream.