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ability to effectively use the machine. But what happens when
his imagination isn’t strong enough to harvest energy from dreams? Will that
mean he failed the interview?
    Boof, boof, boof ,
the ball bounced. ‘Good throw!’ someone shouted. Laughter and high fives
followed.
    Peter looked behind at an old
man, who wore blue latex gloves and who was scrubbing the floor. The way he
scrubbed made Peter think that this wasn’t his first cleanup. The foam on the
floor consisted of white bubbles, red bubbles, and a lot of citrus smelling something.
Peter looked away from the foam and at the basketball players, and he wondered
again: what did I get myself into?

-7-
     
     
    The cleaners did a fantastic
job. They left the floor sparkling, smelling of flowers in the rain, as if
nothing had happened. They snapped off their blue-latex gloves and carried the
cleaning utensils to the door. As the door swallowed them one by one, Peter lay
on the Dream Infiltrator, his heart beating uncomfortably, the inevitable
approaching.
    You need to lie perfectly
still, one of the men in black coats reminded. If you don’t, it could cause
disturbances in the energy distribution, something they did not want and had no
time in indulging. This was a professional operation conducted by professional
people – the Yaramati gang, a proud syndicate aiming for great things, which,
of course, had capital green high on its list. Its motto: work with us or fuck
off, dead.
    ‘These aren’t part of the
Infiltrator,’ Midori said, picking up Peter’s wrist, which rattled. ‘The cuffs
are – how can I put it?’ his lips parted to the side, ‘a security precaution.
Are they too tight?’
    They were. The metal scratched
his skin. The thought of asking Midori to loosen them felt absurd. Midori
rummaged the key from his pants and slid it into the cuffs. ‘Let me help you.’ The
cuffs tightened, and Peter’s wrist burned.
    He yelped. ‘I’m helping you.
Why are you making it worse?’
    Midori frowned at him, the way
you might look at a stray dog. He was going to say something, lips apart, but
was interrupted.
    ‘The machine’s almost ready,’
the man said, checking his cell. Everything he wore was black, his pants, his
shiny shoes, his coat, and his glasses, which were resting on top of his head. Midori
was the only one wearing a white vest.
    ‘Where is the needle?’ Midori
asked, waving at the Dream Infiltrator.
    ‘It should be here in five
minutes. We had trouble.’
    Under the room’s lights,
Midori’s dragon tattoo appeared to be moving, alive, with his arm gestures. ‘What
trouble?’
    ‘The tollgate. The police
wanted a scan on the cargo.’
    Midori swung his arm at the
heavens. ‘And what happened?’
    ‘It was no fucking problem at
all,’ the man snickered. ‘We had Jiro scanning the truck for us.’
    ‘Jiro, the police guy?’
    The man nodded.
    ‘How much are we paying him?’
    ‘An amount that shuts the
mouth.’
    ‘Very good. I want a visit to
his house.’
    He stopped typing on his cell
and looked up, confused. ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘Burn the body.’
    ‘But isn’t he—’
    Midori slapped him across the
cheek. The man’s head flew sideways. He stumbled a good distance and looked
behind as if worried about something else – maybe a bullet. ‘I’m sorry!’ the
man said. ‘I shouldn’t have questioned.’ He got up from the floor, bowed with
shaky knees, and rushed for the door.
    As if on cue, a stream of
people came in, carrying the final piece of the puzzle, the machinery needed to
transfer the energy. It was like an IV pole, just a lot bigger with cords
snaking all around.
    ‘Put the headpiece on him,’ the
newest member of the black coats said. He studied Peter’s forearm. ‘This is
going to sting. Bite your tongue, boy.’ The man reached for the cord on the
machine, pulling a string that made a hissing sound.
    ‘Wait, what are you doing? What
is that?’ Peter heard the fear in his voice. The cord had a