The owner has provided you neither a number nor an address at which he can be reached, not even in case of emergency. And on the fourth day in a row that you drive to his barren postal box in downtown N—, you give up any expectation of receiving further instructions from him. But it is true that all your needs are met. The owner has left half the amount of your cash stipend in a white envelope on the kitchen counter, just as his letter promised. This amount can be made to last until he returns, at which point, you suppose, you have no reason to doubt that he will pay you the rest.

By the end of the first week, you have fallen into a routine. In the mornings you take walks through the surrounding pine forests, sometimes swimming laps in a small pond that you discovered. When in need of groceries, you hike to your car at the trailhead and drive into N—, but otherwise you allow yourself to luxuriate in the seclusion of the cabin. Whole days pass without your seeing or hearing another human being. The advertisement was vague on the question of your duties: you are only to maintain the general upkeep. Really, the post sounded like a sinecure. And because the general upkeep, judging by the state of the lawn, does not need much maintaining, you do not bother tending the property. The one morning you try to, you get no further than searching for equipment. All you can find is a supply shed at the edge of the backyard, a small shack of corrugated tin, with nothing inside that could be of any use to you: an empty tool chest, a cord of firewood, some wattle fencing. And leaning against the side of the shed, a rusted push mower.

Only at night are you reminded that the man is sick. During the day you are able to put it out of your consciousness entirely. But, lying on his mattress, waiting to fall asleep, you stare at the dreamcatcher in the bedroom window and think of every mad thought that has authored it. Each night your last waking thoughts are of the owner and his nightmares, so much so that you half expect to have one yourself. In the mornings you are even mildly surprised to discover that you haven’t. The whole first week in the cabin, your dreams are untroubled and blank, utterly unmemorable mere moments after waking. Perhaps, you catch yourself thinking, the dreamcatchers are working.

Then, on the final evening of that initial week, you suffer what you think of as a waking nightmare. It happens while you are staring at yourself in the owner’s bathroom mirror, getting ready for bed. This is the first time you have really studied your reflection here, and you are struck by the dirtiness of the glass, the way it is covered with thin streaks of grime. The bathroom is closet-sized and, except for the brick of glass in the shower stall, windowless. Behind your reflection in the mirror, you can see the moldy vinyl of the shower’s yellow curtain, and behind that, you know, is the brick-shaped window’s dreamcatcher. Examining the streaks in the mirror, you notice that they, too, form a kind of dreamcatcher: a system of threads crisscrossing its surface in a network.