Fairbanks, Alaska, is 200 miles south of the Arctic Circle, the imaginary line that extends in an arc across the upper third of Alaska. The Arctic Circle marks the southern limit of the area where the sun does not rise on the winter solstice or set on the summer solstice. While there is no Polar Day — twenty-four hours of sunlight — in Fairbanks, the sun is still scheduled for a heavy workload at over twenty-two hours.

I push myself up with a gasp.

My heart races. I am covered in sweat.

Snippets of the nightmare swirl around me.

A white room.

A doctor in blue scrubs.

An IV in my arm.

Where is it?

I don’t know.

Where is it?

Where is what?

The flash drive.

What flash drive?

A syringe of pink liquid.

I squirm.

He injects the syringe in my IV.

I scream.

And that’s when I wake up.

It takes me a long minute to calm my breathing. It doesn’t help that I am in a strange bed, in a strange bedroom. I’d seen pictures of the room where I would wake up, but it is still a shock to the system. The master bedroom — one of three bedrooms in the expansive cabin — holds a king-size bed resting in a frame of shiny logs. Across from the bed is an oak dresser, with a wide mirror. Heavy champagne blinds guard guests from the blistering sun that will rise in mere minutes. To have made it here means everything went seamlessly: the eleven-hour flight, being transported by wheelchair to the waiting van, the twenty-minute drive to the cabin on the bank of the Chena River, and being dumped onto the aforementioned Sleep Number.

I jump out of bed and throw on the jeans and gray sweatshirt Ingrid has laid out for me. After slipping on my shoes, I spend a long minute in the bathroom, wiping the sweat from my brow and ear-marking a soak in the Jacuzzi tub with Ingrid in the coming days.

I exit the bathroom and follow the smell of sizzling bacon.

“Hey, Sleepyhead,” Ingrid calls from an exquisite kitchen of oak and marble.

“Good morning,” I say.

“Are you okay?” she asks, her head cocked to the side.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

I don’t want to tell her that I had another nightmare. That I’d been having them ever since I was waterboarded. Ever since I was strung up by my wrists and beaten. I didn’t want to tell her that the nightmares were getting worse. That last night’s was the worst yet.

Lassie sits on the marble island eating a plate of bacon and eggs Ingrid has prepared. I give him a scratch behind the ears, then pull Ingrid into my arms. She appraises me for a long second, making sure I’m not lying, then hands me a plate and says, “Hurry up and eat.”