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ten weeks ago, she awoke violently from a nightmare—as if jolted by electricity—and found she was sitting in her car. The windshield was misty from her breath. She clung to the steering wheel like a drowning swimmer to a life raft and watched the blood flow out of her swollen knuckles. She had three long scratches on her right forearm. Somehow she had driven to church, parked in front of it, and turned off the engine. Her pajama top was spattered with the blood from her arm, and she could feel a stinging cold in her bare feet. She drove home, shaking more from fear than the temperature. It was 4:19 when she got back into bed, cowering under her comforter and shivering until dawn.
    A few hours later, she called the Oakland Sleep Institute.
    She never figured out how she hurt her arm, and for weeks, those wounds were the only thing convincing her that the entire incident wasn’t a dream.
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    With no introduction and no reassuring smile, Dr. Clay begins talking as soon as he enters the room. His brown socks don’t quite match the color of his pants or tweed jacket, and his striped tie is as interesting as the hallway. He reminds Samantha of a college English professor, but instead of dog-eared novels, he carries files and a yellow notepad.
    â€œYou are all here because everything else has failed.” His voice is neither loud nor soft, but the intensity of it gives him tremendous authority. He speaks with a kind of reverence for what he’s saying, like a man who values the power of words and expects others to do the same.
    â€œEach of you suffers from chronic forms of insomnia and parasomnia—a state in which people can act out their dreams. As you know, parasomnias are manifested in various ways, depending on what stage of sleep you’re in. The most severe and potentially dangerous type is the night terror. In its early stages, this disorder disrupts sleep and leads to behaviors in both semisleep and sleeping states—mostly sleepwalking, grinding your teeth, that kind of thing. Over a longer period of time, as with all of you, the symptoms become more acute. You wake up screaming and frightened—unable to remember what you dreamed about, how you ended up outside one morning, how you got cut or bruised.
    â€œIn its most advanced stages, this disorder can cause seizures or lead to physical violence against yourself and others.” He pauses to look at each of them. “This is why we’re here—to get control of this before it gets control over you.”
    Samantha’s isn’t sure whether he has made her feel better or worse, but he has convinced her to trust him. Something about the dry conviction of his words wins her over. He looks down at his notepad and reads each of their names aloud.
    â€œOne other person is supposed to be here.” He writes something about this, then looks back at the group. “For the next week, you’ll be sleeping here—in individual rooms on the fifthfloor. We’ll start treatment tonight at nine. Bring whatever makes you most comfortable—a favorite blanket, pillow—”
    Arty interrupts, his voice tight and frustrated. “What exactly is the treatment?”
    â€œIt’s a form of electrohypnosis. You’ll wear lightweight goggles that emit flashes of light and an earpiece that produces synchronized harmonic tones. This will induce a kind of trance state to relax your body and promote sleep.”
    â€œHypnosis?” Sam asks.
    He must hear the waning confidence in her voice, but he doesn’t seem concerned. He answers with absolute conviction, as if she had asked him the answer for two plus two. “Yes.”
    Perhaps it doesn’t matter, she thinks. He knows that they’re exhausted from fighting a losing battle, that they’ll try anything to keep hoping.
    â€œWhen you get here tonight,” he continues, “tell the receptionist that you’re part of Endymion’s