None of these.

You turn from the table and run, far and fast as your legs will take you. Your heart is beating so hard you think your chest is about to crack open. Cold hands reach from the void and take hold of your shoulders.

"Hey! Wake up!"

You're in your apartment, your sheets soaked with sweat and your roommate Anna is standing over you with a concerned stare.

"Are you okay? You were having a nightmare."

You assure her that you're fine, and after coming back with a glass of water, she finally goes to bed. You lie awake, mind racing, thinking about your dream. Something about it had been so real, so visceral.

After what seems like hours, you finally drift back to sleep. Your dreams are quiet this time and for many nights following. Weeks turn to months, and as you wallow in your dead-end job you often sit wondering about what would have happened if you hadn't run away.

One day, your boss takes notice of your daydreaming and fires you. Without a way to make rent, your roommate - under the advice of her boyfriend - kicks you out. You couch-surf for a few weeks at various friends' houses, and soon you're begging whatever greater power might exist for the dream to return so you can get a second chance. You begin taking sleeping pills just for deeper, dreamier sleep.

The fire department later announces that the gas main that exploded underneath the motel you were staying at was an unfortunate accident. You didn't suffer at all. The fire chief goes so far as to say that you simply fell asleep and never woke up.