Just then the elevator came to a stop, and the doors opened, and the young man inclined his head in a slightly different way, a way that was clearly meant to indicate: After you.

I stepped out into the darkened hallway, which was in every respect just as it had been in waking life: dark, with dark red wallpaper, the thick carpet soft and pillowy underfoot. I walked down it until I came to the door of Room 409, where I hung back for a moment, hesitating.

“You’re certain they’re expecting me?” I asked. But there was no reply. When I turned around I saw that I was alone in the hallway—the dark-haired young man had vanished.

But this, too, was not too daunting an obstacle for the dream version of myself, who, it appeared, was much better at taking things in stride than I was in real life. I turned back to the door, ready to knock, and saw that there was no need, because it was now ajar.

“Hello?” I called.

From inside the room, there was no answer. I pushed the door open and went inside.

At first glance, the room was empty. Everything was just as it had been before. The bed, the desk, the thick ocher curtain. In my dream I was able to examine several places at once. I looked at the bed. It had been made. But then again, I thought, a bed is easily made and unmade. And then I thought, Christ almighty! Even in my dreams I cannot escape these ridiculous thoughts.

The briefcase, I thought. Time in the dream seemed to be speeding up, such that the moment I thought the words “the briefcase,” I was kneeling before the desk, my hand groping in the dark recess beneath. Half a second later the gold buckles flashed, and the briefcase lay open on my lap. It was empty.

How odd, I thought. The last time I was here things were very different. And then I thought, Perhaps this is a different briefcase. But before I could think that thought through to its logical conclusion, before I could even begin to think it, I became aware of another new development—something else that was different about this dream version of the hotel room, which I had failed to notice upon entering: the sound of running water, coming from the direction of the bathroom.

I laid the briefcase down carefully on the floor and listened. It was the sound of someone drawing a bath. It had escaped my attention somehow that the door to the bathroom was ajar, and the light was on inside, and a long illuminated strip lay across the carpet.

“I wouldn’t go in there if I were you,” said a female voice. I turned.

Kirstie was sitting on the edge of the bed, dressed in her usual shiny black athletic clothing. In my dream her presence seemed perfectly natural.

“Why not?” I asked.