My foot’s bouncing and I can’t seem to keep it still. I can see the others in the doctor’s waiting room watching me. They probably think I’ve found a lump. Or I’m bleeding from somewhere I shouldn’t. But it’s not me that won’t stop bleeding. God, I don’t know what I’m going to say. I made tea in my sleep and had a conversation with my dead sister. My stepmother is dying and I threatened to throw a student out of the window. I’ve barely slept for a week and, when I do, I nearly sleepwalk my way out of the house. Every way I look at it I sound crazy. I probably look crazy right now.

It wasn’t an accident, Bella whispers as I wait to get called in, and I shake my head to get rid of her voice. No, not her voice. My voice. My subconscious.

Everyone’s looking at me as I hunch over, arms wrapped around myself. My nerves are taking their minds off whatever brings them here and I can’t get angry with them because I do the same when I’m in the doctor’s waiting room. Who doesn’t? The ten-year-old magazines, gray carpet, gray chairs, the smell of antiseptic and the sounds of sniffing and coughing—what else are you going to do to kill the time? The yellow man with the shakes, the sneezing, coughing, wailing kids—easy-peasy. But the ghost-pale woman in the corner staring straight ahead? Less easy to diagnose. Oh no, wait. That’s me, reflected in the window. Foot still bouncing, ready to take off for space, then a buzz and my name is called. I take a deep breath and get up.

The doctor has a bald spot, shiny and red. It reminds me of someone, a fleeting memory that’s there and gone before I can catch it. I can’t help but notice it because he stays bent over the keyboard he’s tapping away on even when I come in and sit down. Maybe he’ll notice I’m here if I reach over and rub it, Aladdin style.

“I’m having trouble sleeping,” I say weakly when he finally looks up. I see his gaze slip away from me, to his computer. He’ll look me up now to check that I’m not an addict looking for a prescriptive fix. He’ll give me some pills to help me sleep and send me away. I have to try again.

“It’s more than that. More than insomnia. I’m sleepwalking and…and I’m seeing things.”

That gets his attention. “You’re seeing things? Spots? Floating black spots in front of your eyes? Flashes? Prisms?” He’s getting out that light thing, ready to shine in my eyes, ready to look into my brain for some physical thing to hack off, burn out, drown in pills.