Hidden in Dreams Read Free

overweight, almost round, and showed a clinical disconnect from his personal appearance. It could have been caused by his agitated state, but Elena did not think so. He wore a blue and yellow and green short-sleeved shirt, a web belt, and creased khaki trousers. His hair, though short, was unruly, as though he had not brushed it in days. Elena knew such traits were common in severe adult ADHD cases.
    The patient asked, “Am I having these dreams on account of your spray? ’Cause if I am, I want out. Today.”
    “There have been over three hundred patients in our human trials,” Rachel replied calmly. “These trials have now entered the third phase and have been going on for almost two years. No one, I repeat, not a single other individual, has reported anything like your symptoms.”
    The man was distraught. “So what am I supposed to do?”
    “Before we discuss treatment, I would be grateful if you would please describe your symptoms for me.”
    “What are you, some kind of doctor?”
    “I am a clinical biochemist. I am also director of this project.”
    Elena had the distinct impression the man was unaware of being videotaped. Which was not entirely ethical, since most clinicians would make an official statement with each new taping. The patient had undoubtedly signed release forms before beginning the trial. Which would legally cover this. But Elena disliked the secretive corporate nature revealed in this action.
    Rachel pressed gently, “You have been involved in this study for how long?”
    “I got my first spray last week. Today was supposed to be dose two. Now I ain’t so sure.”
    “And the dreams began immediately after the first dose?”
    “Nah, it was three nights ago. But it ain’t no dream. It’s an attack.”
    “Who attacks you, sir?”
    “The thing, the place, all of it. Over and over.”
    “So the dream is repetitive.”
    “Nine, ten times now. It comes more than once every night.”
    “Will you describe it for me, please?”
    Elena gripped the tablet with both hands. When the patient leaned forward, she did the same. Caught up in the man’s evident fear. And everything that had come before in her own life.
    “It starts out, I’m standing in the bank lobby. The line, it just goes on forever. Out the doors and down the block and back for miles. I’m in line but I see this too. Don’t ask me how. I’ve been standing there for, like, days. We all have. And we’re scared.”
    “You share this sensation of palpable fear with the others standing in line?”
    “All of us. Every last one. You bet.”
    “What precisely are you afraid of?”
    “I don’t know. Not then.”
    “What happens next?”
    “The line starts moving. Only the fear, it just gets worse. I’m so scared, man.” Dark patches streaked the patient’s shirt. His face glistened. His voice shook as he continued, “Finally it’s my turn. I tell the lady behind the counter, I want all of it. Every dime. It’s mine and I want it now.
    “She goes, ‘Certainly, sir.’ And she dumps this load of confetti on the counter. I can see it’s money. But it’s been shredded. Worthless. Then I wake up.”
    “Can you describe for me the moment of waking?”
    He wiped his face with both hands. “I’m screaming my head off.”
    “I understand this is very difficult for you. I genuinely appreciate the effort this requires.”
    The patient’s haunted expression said he knew what was coming.
    Rachel asked, “Is there anything more you would like to share with me?”
    The patient mashed his hair down tight to his skull. Over and over.
    “Any lingering impression or feeling that might—”
    “I got to tell somebody.”
    “Excuse me?”
    “You asked what I feel. That’s it. That’s why I’m sitting here. Going through this again. Because I got to. You hear what I’m saying?”
    “You are telling me that you are filled with a strong urge to share this dream.”
    “I already told you, lady. This ain’t no