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distraction, but it’s embarrassing, somehow, to retell it, even though there’s really nothing embarrassing about it—I mean, it’s not like one of those dreams people always have when they’re naked in class or something, but I do feel naked somehow, like I’m revealing too much. “We’re going up the front steps to a door.”
    “Please,” he says, “Describe the door.”
    “It’s huge,” I say, “Stretched. Elongated. The wood is red—like oxblood red.”
    He frowns at his legal pad, jotting things down. “Does it have a handle? A latch?”
    “A doorknob. Polished brass.” That’s very clear in my mind. “And a knocker, also brass, shaped like a face.”
    Dr. Sterling makes a thoughtful hmmmming noise. “And what does the face look like?”
    I don’t want to remember it. “I can’t remember.”
    He smiles a bland, reassuring smile. “Please, Mariana, try.”
    How can I describe it? “It’s in agony. It’s screaming.”
    “I see.” He nods and writes something down. “And do you knock on the door?”
    I want to yell No, I don’t knock on the door! Are you insane? But there’s no way to express to him how the door feels , the paralyzing feeling of dread that comes over me when I’m near it. The feeling there’s something behind it that I do not want to see. I can’t even begin to express the feeling, so instead I say, “There’s a ticking noise.”
    “Like… a bomb,” he supplies.
    “No, like a clock.” My face is hot with embarrassment. I know it sounds silly. What’s so scary about a clock?
    Dr. Sterling turns his gaze on me like he’s directing a spotlight. “And tell me, how does that make you feel?”
    It makes me feel like every vein in my body is a tiny crack and any second I’m going to splinter into a thousand pieces. It makes me feel like my stomach is a small animal curling up to die. It makes me feel like my throat is scabbing over and I can’t breathe.
    It makes me feel like I felt in the hospital.
    My voice comes out very small. “Afraid?”
    Dr. Sterling gives me a patented reassuring smile. “It’s all right, Mariana. You’re safe here. The dream is in your mind, nothing more.”
    I suddenly feel like I’m about nine. Of course it’s just in my mind. To believe anything else would be crazy.
    “Is there anything more?”
    I can’t help but feel like I’ve let him down somehow. I mean, it isn’t even a real nightmare. No one even has a chainsaw. And I’m supposed to be his craziest client.
    “There are words carved into the arch above the door,” I add lamely.
    He picks his legal pad up again with interest. “And what do the words say?”
    “I don’t know. They’re high above the door. I can’t see them.” The truth is, I can’t even bring myself to look.
    Dr. Sterling shuts his eyes. “I invite you to close your eyes, Mariana,” he says in a soothing voice, “and imagine what the words might say, if you were able to see them.”
    I want to tell him it doesn’t matter what they might say. They say what they say. But that makes it sound like I think the door is real, and that makes me sound too crazy.
    “See it in your mind’s eye,” Dr. Sterling intones.
    I don’t want to see it. Instead I picture the chalkboard behind the cash register in the dining hall, marked with the day’s specials.”
    “Now,” he says, “What does it say?”
    I’m tempted to say, tuna salad and tater tots . I shake my head. “I really don’t know.”
    “That’s fine, Mariana,” he says soothingly, “But tell me, what do the words remind you of?”
    I think for a moment. “They’re carved, like the words on a tombstone.”
    “Good. Good.” He nods vigorously, eyes still closed. “And if you could carve any words up there, what words would you choose?”
    I feel like I’m being manipulated. He’s trying to trick me into getting at it in some roundabout way. But I have to say something. I can just picture him writing in the record “patient