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like talking anymore. I don’t know if I want to ignore the problem, or if I just want to keep it private.
    “Nothing. Just wanted some company.”
    She raises an eyebrow. I can tell only because her heavy bangs shift when she does it. But she nods, stares off again and takes a drag.
    She says, “I am really good company. People tell me all the time.”
    “Oh yeah?”
    “Oh yeah. You doubt it, when you just searched me out for ten minutes of it? My company is the best. It’s the good stuff. The hard stuff.”
    “You’re the sticky-icky of company.”
    “That’s right. Other bitches be ditch weed. I’m dank. My company is so good it has you hallucinating and shit, giving you ’Nam flashbacks from a decade before you were even born.”
    I laugh. She is good company.
    “Give me your phone,” she says.
    I give her a look.
    “Seriously. Hand it over.”
    I fish it out of my pocket and put it in her open palm.
    “Wow, just a phone, huh? Can this even play music?”
    “I think it can. I’ve never tried.”
    “Wow. Okay. You know I sell phones for a living. This is like a slap in my face, owning a phone like this.” She starts pressing keys; I reach for it but she smacks the back of my hand and keeps going, then hands it back. “There’s my number. Whenever you decide you want to talk about whatever it is you wanted to talk about, give me a call.”
    I’m torn between disliking being so transparent, and liking that she cares enough to read me. I’m leaning more toward the latter.
    “Okay.” I put the phone back in my pocket.
    “Also, you can text me next time you want to take a break instead of doing the business-casual-commando thing. You can text, right?”
    “Yes, I can text.”
    “T-9ing it. That’s crazy.” She digs into her little purse and takes out a smartphone. “Now, this bad boy has multiple processors…”
    Back at my desk, I take my phone out and stare at the “Leslie” entry in my phone book as if it isn’t blocky digital text, but a picture my mind begins to fantasize about. Then it becomes a video and then moves into full-sensory imagination.
    A little fantasizing has never done any harm. Action causes harm. Thoughts are weightless. Dreams are nothing.
    Yeah, right, dreams are nothing.
    This isn’t good.
    * * *
    Dr. Turner walks into the office, staring down at his clipboard. “I see from your journal you had a pretty severe night terror last night.”
    “Yeah, worse than ever. Bright light always wakes me up, so we keep the hall light on all night. Last night it didn’t stop me. I ran down the hall and into my kid’s room.”
    “That’s very interesting. You saw this recurring nightmare character leave your room, so you went after him.”
    “Yeah, but it’s not interesting. It’s very bad. Before, my family was safe as long as they didn’t come into my bedroom. Now…Is the medicine doing this?”
    “I can’t say. Possibly.”
    “Has anyone else reported this effect?”
    “You know I can’t—”
    “I could have killed him! I could have killed my son. My wife won’t even look at me. And you’re going to tell me because of policy you can’t…” I stand up and toss my messenger bag over my head. “I’m done. I’m out of here. I remember signing people up for some psychology studies in college, and we’d tell them they were being studied for one thing and it’d be something totally different. But you’re messing with people’s lives. This is serious.”
    I head for the door, but Dr. Turner holds out a hand. “Just a second. You’re free to quit at any time, of course, but I don’t think you should. I can’t tell you a lot, but I can promise you we’re not creating a drug to give people worse night terrors. What we’re trying to do is change your brain chemistry, and that can take more than one dose, and can have unexpected effects until the intended one is achieved.”
    I’m not convinced, but I’m listening.
    “You might not even be receiving the