Inside, it was not a sphere. It was a city. An infinite, ruined city made of the detritus of American dreams. Skyscrapers built from stacked cathode-ray tube televisions, their screens all showing the same static snow. Streets paved with vinyl records that cracked like ice underfoot. And the people—or what used to be people—stood frozen mid-stride. They were mannequins, but not plastic. They were made of hardened ash and melted cassette tapes, their faces locked in expressions of teenage longing: the pout of a girl waiting for a call, the slack-jawed awe of a boy watching a rocket launch on a black-and-white set.
She snapped her fingers. The frozen mannequins twitched. Their static-filled eyes flickered to life. They began to shamble toward Jade, arms outstretched. Not to hurt—to beg. Daydream Nation
"Don't," Eli said, his voice tight.
Then they saw it.
She opened her eyes and looked directly into Jenny's mismatched gaze. "You're not the warden. You're the prisoner. You gave up your daydreams because you were scared. But I'd rather feel the ache of wanting than the numbness of having nothing left to want." Inside, it was not a sphere