Once upon a time, there were two sisters, born less than a minute apart. If you read their descriptions in a book, you would think they were identical twins, but if you saw them skipping down the lane between the huckleberry bushes, you would know that they were as different as apple pie and anchovies. Both girls had blonde hair, fair complexions, and green eyes; however, one sister had hair as golden as a ray of sunshine, eyes as green as the sea after a spring shower, and skin as white as the purest snow, while the other sister had hair as yellow as mustard, eyes as green as relish, and skin as white as mayonnaise. The daughter resembling nature was named Glissandra. Her parents always called her by her full name. It suited her, they said. The daughter resembling hamburger condiments was named MacKenzie, but her parents called her by her nickname, Big Mac. MacKenzie preferred just plain Mac.

Glissandra was a lovely, graceful girl, who moved like water trickling over smooth rocks down a gently sloping hill. MacKenzie was square and gruff, and she moved like water frozen into large blocks and flung with great force down the hill, crashing onto the ground below. The sisters were different in many ways, but they shared one significant trait: They both possessed the ability to enter people’s dreams. If a person was having a horrible nightmare, Glissandra would conjure up bluebirds and rainbows and sparkling streams to ease the person’s torment; if a person was having a wonderful dream, Mac would add loud crashes and perhaps squirt some ketchup around (which looks a lot like blood), since anyone who is completely blissful when asleep might never want to wake up.

Glissandra and Mac thought nothing of their unique ability. Entering people’s dreams had become as second-nature to them as filling each square on a waffle’s top with butter and maple syrup. Every evening, at that magical time when the day was waving its farewell and the night was just waking up, the girls would lie in their beds and drift away to weave their magic.

One evening, far away in a remote wooden cottage at the edge of the world, a little boy named Johnny Marigold lay shivering in his bed. Old Doc Benson sat on one side of the bed and held Johnny’s wrist, feeling a pulse as faint as the thin wisp of breeze struggling through the open window, while Johnny’s mother sat on the other side, smoothing sweat-soaked hair back from his burning forehead. 

“There’s nothing more I can do,” said the doctor. “He’ll have to fight this on his own. But he needs to eat. He’s getting weaker by the minute.”

Mrs. Marigold’s voice broke. “He hasn’t eaten in five days. The most I can get him to do is sip a little water.”

Doc Benson shook his head and stood up. “Keep trying. I’ll check back tomorrow.”

Johnny moaned as he tossed and turned, his mind half mad with fever. He opened his eyes briefly and saw his mother asleep in her chair, the glow of the big red sun setting behind the rickety barn casting mournful shadows throughout the room. His eyelids lowered and he sank back into a tortured sleep, his favorite fairy tale having turned into a grotesque nightmare.

When Glissandra and Mac arrived in Johnny’s dream, they saw a little boy holding onto a beanstalk, a mad giant roaring above and throwing thunderbolts of fire down upon him. The beanstalk was swaying to and fro, and the boy was clinging to it desperately, his eyes as big and round as pancakes. “Oh, this will be fun!” cried Mac, as she joined the giant and dropped great ripe tomatoes on the little figure. But Glissandra noted the hysteria in the boy’s eyes, the chattering of his teeth, the pale cast of his skin. 

“No, Mac. I think this nightmare is different.”

As they watched, a shimmering shadowy shape emerged behind the boy, and the boy’s body began to crumple.

“I think that’s his soul!” cried Glissandra. “We have to save him!”

Glissandra blew a sleeping draught into the giant’s face, causing him to sink to the ground, but not before he had hurled a final massive bolt of lightning down at the tiny figure. The boy’s body stiffened, his grasp released from the beanstalk, and he began to fall.

“Quick! Mac! Do something!”

Mac dove through the air and caught the falling figure in a giant lettuce leaf, floating him gently to the ground and landing him on a pile of soft hamburger buns.

“Now for the finishing touches,” said Mac, fashioning a pillow out of pickles, covering him with a thick slice of cheddar, and piping mayonnaise all around to tuck him in.

“I can add some happy thoughts,” said Glissandra, waving her hands over his forehead and blowing gently on his hair.

The little boy gave a deep sigh, and as his breathing began to steady, Glissandra and Mac faded from his dream.

Mrs. Marigold awoke with a start. She turned to Johnny and gasped—Johnny was sitting up in bed with a smile on his face as wide as the Pacific Ocean.

She ran to him and hugged him tightly. He was no longer hot to the touch. How could this be?

“Momma, I had the best dream,” said Johnny. “I was Jack, and I was climbing the beanstalk, and this nice giant helped me up and read me stories, and then we played hide and seek, and then we had this big feast with all the best food!”

Mrs. Marigold thought of the doctor’s orders. “Johnny, do you think you could eat something? A cracker, maybe? Or a spoonful of soup?”

“Gee, Momma,” said Johnny. “What I really feel like is a cheeseburger.”