“Wonderful.” He smiled again, tightly, but his voice was warm and the ice in my stomach started to thaw. I felt myself smiling back, just a little. “Then you can call me Owen. Why don’t we sit.”

Silently, I sat back down on the couch that felt like it had been sat in maybe three times. The fabric was soft but the cushions stiff and unyielding. Agent Green—Owen—sat down in the chair opposite and crossed his legs.

He opened a thin folder on his lap and looked down at it. “Now, I know you went through everything on the phone, but do you have any questions?”

“Um…” Did I have questions? I had a million questions—what would I be asked to do? Would they give me medicine to stop the dreaming? Would they teach me how to dream? Were there other dreamdivers here? “What happens first?”

“Well, once I’m done with all your intake forms, we’ll take you over to our medical wing, where you’ll get a quick physical, and then we’ll show you to your room, where you can get settled in before dinner. You won’t be doing much this weekend—just meeting our other patients, getting to know our counselors. Then on Monday you’ll start with some individual- and group-therapy sessions and then you’ll start doing workshops to help learn control.”

The mention of group therapy brought up an awful, stomach-rattling fear that I’d had the moment I’d woken up from sharing Aaron’s dream. I’d spent so much of today thinking about when Aaron went to the AM—how hard it had been when he first started hearing thoughts and how hard it still was after. He seems to have pretty good control of his ability now, and it’s like he’s forgotten how … downright awful he was when it started happening. I certainly didn’t want to go into some random stranger’s dream and make them feel self-conscious about their innermost thoughts. But Owen assured me I’d be given my own room for extra privacy.

My “own room” is a bit of a strong phrase. It feels like somewhere between a hostel and a crappy dorm room: bed, nightstand with a lamp, a tiny bathroom separated by a thin, sliding door. I was allowed to bring my own stuff—clothes, toiletries, books … but no phone or computer. I brought a few cookbooks I’d been wanting to read all the way through and my battered copy of Kitchen Confidential, but god I am going to be so bored here without a kitchen to cook in or reruns to watch mindlessly. I get to call my family every day, but apparently they like to limit “outside contact” in order to keep us focused on our growth, or whatever bullshit borderline-cult-ish thing Owen said.