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it probably wouldn’t help this nightmare—it needed a couple of days to really kick in—but it would stop this from happening again. So I cradled him until it was over, crying with him, rocking him gently. Then I slid two of the pills into his mouth and made him drink some bottled water.
    Since we weren’t in any big hurry, I decided to hole up in Kingman for a few days. I would have preferred somewhere else, but I thought being in a quiet, comfortable place would make the transition back to sanity easier for Teddy. I found us a decent three-bedroom up on a hill, with a little (dying) garden and nice furniture, and we moved in.
    The Prolixin worked. Teddy actually slept through the night, which was new because the people who had the dream sickness didn’t really sleep.
    He woke up the next morning, not long after dawn. He was groggy, but fairly lucid. I told him where we were, and why we were there, and where we were going. He kind of nodded, then drifted away.
    I spent the day just goofing around. Exploring the house. Eating. Drinking. Reading.
    It was late afternoon, and I was cooking up a box of macaroni and cheese I’d found in the kitchen when Teddy shambled in. I took one look at him and knew he wasn’t dreaming.
    â€œHi,” I said cautiously.
    He sat down at the kitchen table. He was frowning, and trying to remember.
    â€œDo you know where we are?” I asked.
    He nodded. “You told me this morning, right?”
    â€œYeah. I wasn’t sure if you’d retain it or not. I gave you some of my medication, this stuff called Prolixin . It seems to stop the dreaming.”
    â€œOkay,” he said.
    â€œHow do you feel?” I asked, spooning mac and cheese onto a plate for him.
    â€œI don’t know. Weird.”
    â€œMaybe this’ll make you feel better.”
    We ate in silence, and drank canned fruit juice.
    When we were done, Teddy said, “Do we…can I take a bath?”
    I nodded. “Yeah, there’s enough water in this house. We can heat some of it, and—”
    He cut me off. “That’s okay, I don’t mind.”
    He picked up a five-gallon jug and started to lug it towards the nearest bathroom. I got to my feet. “Do you want help?”
    â€œNo. Let me do this.”
    Uh-oh.
    An hour later, Teddy emerged from the bathroom, wearing a cotton robe he’d found. He looked better (and, frankly, smelled better), but his expression was still clouded. He sat down by me on the couch. The sun had just set, and the room was lit only by the glow of a few candles I’d set up.
    â€œYou need to know who I really am,” he said.
    And then he told me his story.
    His name was Theodore Wittell , and his family had been upper middle class; they were set up nicely thanks to an import/export business that’d been started two generations ago. They had plans for Teddy to take over the business; but, unfortunately for those plans, he’d discovered at a young age that he liked to draw. His parents tried to pressure him into the family biz, but Teddy’s passion was his art, and he was finally allowed to major in Fine Art at a prestigious school. Upon graduation with his Bachelor’s Degree, he had several major gallery exhibitions and a coveted lead article in an influential art magazine, and he became kind of a celebrity in the art world. He was, for the first time in his life, happy. He loved being an artist, seeing people react to his paintings; he’d even been touted as “the first great African American artist of the 21st century.” He had a girlfriend he was nuts about, and figured they’d get married some day.
    Then it all fell apart with the rest of the world.
    The last thing Teddy remembered was sitting in his loft near downtown L.A. and listening to news reports of something called “the dream sickness.” Then everything just kind of blurred together, like snatches of half-remembered