The Sandman had a cold.
Not a serious cold. Just the kind that makes your nose stream and your eyes water and your aim go completely wrong.
"I can't deliver dreams tonight," he told his apprentice, Pip. "You'll have to go."
Pip had never delivered dreams alone. She gathered the satchel of sand carefully — different colours for different dreams — and set off into the night.
The gold sand was for adventure dreams. The silver for flying. The deep blue for peaceful, underwater dreams. The pale pink for dreams of people you love.
At the first house, she reached for the gold and got the blue by mistake. A boy dreamed of swimming through clouds. He said it was the best dream he'd ever had.
At the second house, she mixed the silver and pink together. A girl dreamed of flying to her grandmother's kitchen and finding it exactly as she remembered.
By the end of the night, Pip had made four mistakes and seventeen beautiful, impossible accidents.
The Sandman reviewed her work the next morning.
"These are better than mine," he said, slightly offended.
Pip smiled. "Mistakes often are."