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like the other apartment houses on the street. Through the now steady rain, Samantha waves one last time to Officer Kincaid, who seems reluctant to leave her here, and walks inside. An apathetic receptionist with dirty blond hair and thick, unflattering makeup directs her to the third floor. “Conference Room Two.”
    Samantha shakes some of the rainwater off her coat and enters the elevator.
    The corridor leading to the room smells like toast. She isn’t surprised by the unimaginative decor: uniform light fixtures, pearl-white walls with forest-green trim, and a smattering of framed floral prints. She has never seen a well-decorated doctor’s office—as if bright colors and real art might distract patients from their illnesses. The door to the small conference room is open. Two people, sitting quietly in chairs, look up as she walks in. Five chairs form a circle in the middle, and oak bookshelves filled with journals and rows of identically bound texts line the back wall. Above the dark green couch to her left, aprint hangs in the center of the wall: A woman slides a thick curtain across the sky, bringing sleep to those in its shadow. Four horses pull a chariot through the sun-soaked clouds, and a young man kneels before a goddess with an arrow in her right hand and a cherub on her shoulder.
    â€œHi,” Samantha says, and the people sitting down muddle through introductions—each of them talking to fill the awkward silences until Dr. Clay arrives.
    Phebe, a cellist and music teacher for the Bay Area Youth Symphony, looks hyper and disheveled thanks to her damp, curly hair. She touches her face nervously and straightens her full-length dress as she talks of rain, rehearsals, and the rising cost of artichoke hearts in the same breath. She seems to smile perpetually, even while talking, and Samantha starts feeling somewhat dizzy from listening.
    When Phebe stops, the man next to her grumbles, “Artemus Beecher. Arty for short.” He extends his long, thin arm, gripping hers firmly, but he doesn’t look directly at her. Both Samantha and Phebe wait, expecting him to say more, but he sits in silence, staring at the floor. After a few moments, Samantha introduces herself and talks about her job as a lawyer but not her troubles with sleep. They all avoid this topic, and whether it’s shame or fear that keeps them silent, she can’t tell.
    She remembers the first time she called Dr. Clay. She was already getting treatment at the Oakland Sleep Institute when she heard about his study. The institute’s staff told her of his reputation as one of the best sleep disorder specialists in the country. An award-winning researcher and prolific writer, Dr. Clay had helped hundreds of patients in the last ten years, and he was about to start a small experimental trial. She had spoken with him only twice before her appointment today. Both times on the phone. She didn’t ask many questions then. In truth, she’s willing to try almost anything.
    Samantha still doesn’t think of herself as the kind of person who asks for help. She can’t remember the last time she saw a doctor before her troubles with sleeping. She is even wary of taking Advil for headaches and cramps. So at first she tried to handle insomnia like a cold, but instead of drinking lots of orange juice and resting, she tried common remedies—exercising (in her case taking up fencing again) and cutting out caffeine from her diet. But nothing seemed to help.
    For three months, she slept only a few hours a night and felt as if she was sleepwalking through work. She didn’t tell friends or colleagues, because she didn’t want sympathy and uninformed advice. She wanted sleep.
    Gradually, nighttime changed for her. She started waking up in different places—on the bathroom floor, underneath the kitchen table, on the futon couch. She could distinctly remember going to bed, but after that, nothing. Then about