“Like I say, I can’t take her out without killing her, and I doubt you want that.”

That’s an option? Good God.

“But I can put you guys in a shared dream with a small dose, if you want,” the orderly continues. “You’ll have to deal with a lot of crossover, but you should be able to speak to her if you really go for it.”

I knew this was a likely outcome, but I’d been hoping to avoid it, yet it all has a feeling of inevitability. Deep down, I think I knew I’d have to visit Mia’s dreams tonight.

Nazarin senses my dismay and leans close. “The sooner we interrogate her, the sooner we can get to the bottom of this. You can find out what Tila was up to.”

Cheap ploy, Nazarin, but effective. “Is it dangerous?” I whisper.

“Of course it is. But you’ll be fine. You’ll be in control.”

“You’re lying.” I follow him down the corridor anyway.

*   *   *

Within minutes, I’m strapped into the Chair. It’s different from a brainloading Chair. Bulkier. More wires. It feels like a cage.

We’re in the same room as Mia, in Chairs on either side of her. Nazarin paid extra for privacy, so the fourth Chair is empty. I turn to look at Mia. She looks so small, with so many wires poking out of her arms and neck. People who sign up for long trips have to be catheterized. Her mouth is pulled into a faint grimace, showing yellowing teeth. The wrinkles in her brown skin are deeper, the cheekbones more prominent. She’s wasting away, like so many Zealots have before her, and so many others will. She doesn’t eat enough, doesn’t drink enough, and eventually, her body will give up. The government doesn’t step in here, though they’re meant to care for each and every citizen. How many people truly realize this is what’s happening, right under their noses? Why isn’t anything being done?

It’s a very small percentage of people who become addicted to Zeal on their first try. Those that do come out and are completely changed by what they’ve seen. What they’ve done. They can’t wait to plug in again and be who they are in their dreams. Real life can cease to have any meaning. If they have money, they fritter away their savings. If they run out, they receive unemployment, and the amount they receive is just enough to keep them in Zealot lounges. They spend enough time in the real world to eat some NutriPaste, perhaps clean themselves, go to the bathroom, and then they’re back to their nearest Zealot lounge, huddled in the darkness, waiting for the cold prick of the syringe to send them back to dreamland.