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uncooperative.”
    “Abandon hope all ye who enter here.”
    Dr. Sterling’s sculpted silver eyebrows go up a notch, and he opens his eyes to jot my words down on his pad. I’ve just quoted the carving above the door of Bedlam, London’s most notorious mental hospital, and although I know that’s not what it says above the door in my dream, I think the fact that it’s the first thing that popped into my mind is something the doctor will consider “clinically significant.”
    He leans back in his chair and studies me, tapping his pen to his lips. “I’m curious, Mariana, what do you think the dream means?”
    I shrug. “I don’t know.”
    “Come now,” he says, “you must have some idea. Take a guess.”
    I feel suddenly tired. “I guess that’s what I’m here for. To find out.”
    “Ah!” He holds up a cautionary finger. “But you do understand I’m not here to give you answers, yes? The answers aren’t mine to give. They are locked away inside your own subconscious.” He taps his temple with his long, tan finger. “My job is simply to help you find the key. Have you ever seen a chick hatch, Mariana?” I can tell he has used this analogy many times before, and he doesn’t pause for my answer. “A chick doesn’t just pop out of the egg and there it is. It has to fight its way out.” He makes a grappling motion with his hands. “And if you break the egg for the chick, no matter how ready it is to come out, that chick will die. Do you know why?” He leans forward in his chair, making an emphatic-but-non-confrontational motion with his hand. “Because the very act of breaking out of the shell is what gives the chick the strength it needs to survive. Do you understand?”
    “Sure,” I say. “You don’t want to hand me an interpretation and have me swallow it whole. I understand that. I don’t want to be a dead chick. But what if I say I want your take on the dream?”
    He studies me, brow creased. I know he wants to give me his two cents. I can tell.
    “Please,” I say, “I really value your opinion.”
    That’s all it takes. Dr. Sterling is easy to flatter. He leans forward another notch in his chair. “To me, it seems quite clear, Miss Santos. You are standing on the threshold—a transition, a transformation—but the way is barred. There’s an intimidating door and the words above it say ‘abandon hope—”
    “They don’t really say that.”
    “Fair enough. But they could. There is a clock ticking in the background, signifying the passage of time, and you are afraid to pass through to—to what, Miss Santos?”
    I shrug.
    “To adulthood!” He slaps his desk with his palm. “You are afraid, now that you are out of the hospital and at college, you will be asked to take responsibility for yourself as an adult. You feel guilty passing on into adulthood, knowing your brother will never get the chance—”
    My eyes skitter away from his face. I don’t want to talk about my brother.
    He must see my expression because he cuts himself off and takes a deep breath. “The point is, you are not alone. You are following a guide, a hyper-feminized anima, a receptive part of your psyche. You said she was dressed for a prom?”
    “Well, I think you said—”
    “Another ritual transition! A rite of passage. Now, at any point, did this guide speak to you? Tell me. What did she say?”
    The image of the girl comes back to me completely, her eyes wide and fearful. “She said, ‘What time is it?’” I mumble.
    “What time is it!” He throws his hands up in triumph. “Do you see? She is looking to you for the answer, and the answer is time to move on! ” He smiles at me proudly. “Walk through that door, Mariana! You won’t regret it.”
    “But,” I say hesitantly, “I don’t really think…”
    “What don’t you think?” He frowns at me. “I mean, it’s your dream of course.” He forces himself to lean back in his chair again, carefully steeples his fingers. “Tell me.