Overhead the lights hummed. They were bright and fluorescent, and they reflected off the clean white walls of the waiting room to produce the unsettling effect of being folded away inside a sheet of paper. Cross-legged on the floor by the door, the boy squinted against the glare and tapped his fingers together—one, two, three, one, two, three. Across from him, a man sat on a long low bench, his knees pointed at awkward angles. As the boy watched, the man put a pen to a sheet of paper, scribbled slowly, and looked at what he’d written. Then suddenly, violently, he crossed it out. He started over. The cycle repeated itself twice before the writer flung down his pen and put his head in his hands, the pen rolling away beneath him. Across the room, the boy watched. His fingers tapped—one, two, three, two, two, three.

Finally the silence became too much. “So, I’m waiting, you’re waiting,” the boy said. “What are you here for?” For a moment the writer didn’t move, and the boy thought he may not have heard. But then the man shifted his hands and spoke through them.

“What are you here for?” he grunted by way of response.

“I’m here to get a new Dream,” the boy said. The writer nodded. He looked down and picked up his pen, but made no move to write.

The boy