"Caleb, you've earned three million since this morning." The man—his name is Jim, I remember; he's a friend of the client—straightens his bow tie and chuckles. "I don't know how you guessed that stock would make such a quick turnaround. My own advisors were so insistent the company was going to be forever in decline. I told them..."
I can feel eyes—my client's eyes—begin to glaze over and I dare to turn his head just slightly to get a look at the time on the onyx-colored chrono screen around his wrist. I hate when they do that, I think to myself. Act as if I'm really the client when it's well known the client has money enough to hire a dream-worker during the day shift.
Caleb's thoughts are the faintest of hums at the back of my mind. It's important for a dream-worker to monitor that hum, to make sure the client is having a restful sleep while we take over his or her body. I close the client's eyes and feel the giddiness coming from Caleb's consciousness beneath mine. It must be nice to dream of joyous things.
My client's ears pick up a little of what Jim is saying. Jim's remembering that, despite appearances, it's not actually Caleb he's talking to. "Caleb will be ecstatic when he returns. Three million! Any more days like this, and he'll be the richest man in Canaan!"
A manual comes in bearing a tray with a steaming mug of coffee. She puts it on the client's table and backs out of the room, unnoticed and unremarked upon. This is your job, I think. It's better than being out there as a manual labor slave. I made three million for the client. That's three hundred for me. That's probably more than everyone else on the team combined made this week.
"Caleb?" Jim's voice snaps me out of my thoughts. How am I going to earn dream-worker of the month again if I act like I still exist? The client pays for convincing work, even if the fortunates know their friends often use us. They all want to appear smarter, more capable than they are.
The chrono screen flashes 4:59. I have one minute to get the client's body to a comfortable position before his consciousness awakens. I ignore Jim and sit in Caleb's lavishly comfortable office chair near the steaming cup of coffee he'll enjoy when he returns. I run his hands across the delicate leather armrests, knowing it's not my body feeling these things; my body is back on the uncomfortable slab at HQ, my own hands are clutching the metal armrests keeping me in place as I perform my work.
"Caleb? Oh. It's that time already."
"I'm resting," I say, the deep voice so unlike my own. "Give me a minute." I close the client's eyes.
The chrono screen beeps 5:00, and I have just one minute to dream on my own before Jake wakes me for my fifteen-minute vitamin break.
A woman with shoulder bones as sharp as an eagle's talons—bones almost protruding from her skin—opens her mouth as wide as it'll go, impossibly wide, consuming the pill that takes both of her arms to cradle. The nourishment makes her thin stomach pop out like she's pregnant with a child so large it'll burst through her stomach. She swallows slowly and licks her lips. Her eyes search around hungrily for more.
That dream again.
YOU ARE READING
Josie's Coat
Teen FictionA woman with shoulder bones as sharp as an eagle's talons-bones almost protruding from her skin-opens her mouth as wide as it'll go, impossibly wide, consuming the pill that takes both of her arms to cradle. The nourishment makes her thin stomach po...
