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break , Julia thought. “Not since college.”
    “Recent rejections?”
    “I’m thirty-four. Let’s just say I don’t get as many invitations as in the past. But men still find me attractive.”
    Distant, but attractive.
    “I have no question about that. You’re a lovely woman.”
    Julia smiled uneasily.
    Linda’s eyes moved away for a peek at the clock. “I’m so sorry, Julia,” she said, “but I need to wrap up our conversation
     to prepare for my next appointment.”
    “Yes. I understand. Thank you for squeezing me in on such short notice.”
    “Perhaps next time we can schedule a full hour. That would give me more time to unpack your experience.”
    “I’d like that,” Julia lied, eager to check Tried therapy off her list.
    “I can say this much, Julia. I’m fairly confident medication won’t solve the problem. I’m not even convinced the dreams are a problem.”
    Of course they’re a problem , Julia thought. I need rest .
    “I’m not a dream specialist,” Linda continued. “But I think your subconscious may be urging you toward something important.”
    “Something important? Like what?”
    “I don’t know,” Linda confessed. “But I imagine it has something to do with your dad.”
    “I told you, my dad was never part of my life. Besides, he’s dead and gone.”
    “Exactly.”

Chapter Six
    Thirty minutes later Julia stood in a dimly lit hallway opposite a peephole through which Jeremy Santos could peer to check the identity
     of his guest.
    She continued probing the assignment Dr. Moreland had given. Talk to someone who can help fill in your father’s face .
    What did she mean? Her father’s absence had never caused strange dreams before. Why should it be causing them now? Julia hated
     the idea of wasting time and energy coddling silly insecurities. What she needed was the welcome distraction of hard work
     on an important assignment.
    As the door opened, Julia smiled at the skinny, pale young man who seemed surprised by her appearance. “Mr. Santos? I’m Julia
     Davidson. Paul Daugherty arranged for us to meet. Is this still a good time?”
    “Yes. Welcome. Please come in.”
    The small apartment felt more cramped than its size required. It contained typical signs of bachelorhood: piles of empty pizza
     boxes, unwashed dishes stacked in the sink, and the slight musty smell of fermenting laundry. Her eyes landed on an assortment
     of mechanical devices gathering dust in the space traditionally occupied by a sofa and end table. At first glance they looked
     like neglected exercise equipment. Closer scrutiny, however, offered a heartrending image of how difficult life for Jeremy’s
     younger brother Antonio must have been.
    “Won’t you sit down?”
    Approaching a chair beside the kitchen table, Julia noticed other signs of life before Antonio’s transition: a lift harness
     visible through the open bedroom door, the corner desk surface higher than normal to enable wheelchair access, and a high-end
     blender well suited for turning solid foods into soft puree.
    Retrieving a portable digital recorder and touch-screen notepad from her purse, Julia asked if he would allow her to record
     the conversation.
    “Of course,” he agreed.
    Hitting the record button, Julia felt a tiny rush of adrenaline, a sensation she had missed. The rewards of writing opinion
     columns paled in comparison to the thrill of investigative reporting. Each story was a new puzzle to solve, problem to decipher,
     or secret to expose. You never knew what you might uncover while asking questions, following leads, chasing obscure details.
     And then the best part: selecting the perfect ingredients to prepare a delicious entrée of journalistic prose.
    “First,” Julia began, “I want to extend my condolences on the loss of your mother and Antonio.”
    “Oh. Yes. Thank you.” Jeremy seemed genuinely surprised by the sentiment. Months of litigation had probably demanded an unnatural
     detachment. Lawyers