1 | The Terrible Dreamer

Chapter 2

WISH

I can't stop fidgeting. I've spun the hair tie around my index finger so many times, my olive skin turns white. It's been weeks since I've last dreamwalked and feels like it'll be another week before we get this show on the road. Our client today is taking forever to dish out the details: why she's here, what she's looking for, and of course the price, which always eliminates half our potential client base before we even meet them.

Today, however, this client paid in full upfront and even brought biscuits.

Steam wafts from the buttery goodness, with a dash of honey, so delicious I've been stuffing my face ever since they graced the table. To distract myself, I pluck two more off the porcelain dish Mom bought at some estate sale for a buck. It's nothing special, plain white with weaving along the edges, the kind you'd have to handwash. Everything in the room is second-hand, yet has an expensive flavor to it. Mom believes imitation of wealth attracts higher paying clients. In a way, she's right.

The woman sobs into her third Kleenex making me reach for a fifth helping of biscuits. Mom sits beside the woman and rubs a gentle hand over her back. She's always been better at dealing with the clients. "It's okay. If you need more time to process this, we can meet another day to discuss the terms—"

The woman feverously shakes her head and blows her nose, slightly rubbing her expensive red lipstick. Her hair falls all over the place and looks like it needs to be brushed, not to mention the dark circles beneath her eyes. Ten bucks says she hasn't slept in two days.

"No, this needs to be done today. I don't know how much time I have left," she says, trembling. "He could find me any minute now."

Now that catches my attention. "Who's after you?"

The woman meets my gaze; eyes fill with tears. "Arnold Croft... He's the Chief Operator for my company, Second Chances, where we manufacture AI prosthetics. He's always been such a kind man. Always giving his time to the cause and donating to charities around the world—I don't understand how this could happen."

She blows her nose again, and this time, I offer up one of her biscuits. The woman stares at it for a moment, then takes in our greeting room for the first time. She glances at the plain cream-colored walls, at the ornate rug squaring off our leather couches and walnut epoxy coffee table, at the abstract painting and absent décor. The room lacks any real substance that will point back to our family. Once the woman looks out the lone window and the expanse of forest beyond—the isolation—determination sparks in her eyes. She takes the biscuit from my hand and scarfs it down until not even a crumb is left.

Finally, we're getting somewhere.

"We've lately been receiving more international orders. I thought we were finally breaking into the market... until I was told by an associate Arnold has been eating dinner with a known trafficker.

I've accessed our database and read through his employee records: the shipping schedules and their cameras, what he's working on at his computer, his leave and vacation, everything. It all comes out clean, but I still have this nagging feeling in the back of my head..."

She takes a breath. "I need to know if he's smuggling drugs with other countries using our prosthetics. If you can bring me some kind of proof, then I'll be able to act accordingly, otherwise I'll have to confront him myself."

This woman would rather hire outside help than risk confronting her coworker. That speaks volumes for how much she doesn't trust him. Yet, this doesn't add up. Drug smuggling isn't that big of a deal, certainly shouldn't cause someone to break down in hysteria, which means this woman is also hiding something.