Page 9 of Victorious

The idea that the simplest answer was almost always the right one.

Which was more likely?

That his new patient possessed the ability to manifest his dreams into reality, an ability no one else had ever witnessed, an ability he himself had never witnessed, for fear that an unknown government entity would erase all traces of him?

Or that he was a twenty-six-year-old man suffering from a persistent lack of sleep, whose exhausted mind was now struggling to differentiate between conscious and unconscious perception?

“All right,” said Gabriel steadily. “Why don’t we do a test?” Paul tensed, but he went on. “There are no cameras here. No recording devices. Just you and me.” He put the notebook and pencil aside. “I’d like to try some light hypnosis. See if we can coax you into sleep. After that, whatever we find, we’ll face it together.”

Paul’s knee began to bob again, with even more vigor. “What if it’s bad? What if you get hurt?”

Gabriel suspected that Paul was less afraid of that, and more afraid of being proven wrong. Of being forced to confront that his mind was no longer a reliable source of information.

“I’m willing to take the chance,” he said evenly, “if you are willing to take it with me.”

Gabriel waited for the resistance, the litany of excuses, the maybe-next-times, but Paul surprised him—pleasantly—by saying yes.

“But I don’t think it’ll work,” he added quickly.

“We won’t know until we try,” said Gabriel.

“It’s just, I’m not tired. Or, I don’t know, I’m too tired. I’ve been taking these pills, to stay awake…”

As he rambled, Gabriel rose and went to his desk, withdrawing a small cloth case. He returned to his seat, and set it on the low table, unzipping the shell to reveal an ampule and three hypodermic needles. A relic of his days at the hospital, where sedation sometimes proved necessary.

“I can give you a very small dose of a sedative. Just to help you relax. If you’re up for that.”

Paul’s breathing quickened. Too much, too fast. Gabriel paused. “Of course, it’s your call.”

He began to zip the case shut when Paul cut in. “Okay. Yeah. Okay.” Then, as if afraid he might lose his nerve if he waited, Paul shoved up his sleeve and offered the crook of his arm.

Gabriel measured out the dose, swabbed his patient’s skin, and applied a tourniquet.

“You might feel a little warm,” he said as the needle went in. “Like the edges of your world are going soft.” Paul nodded, chewing his lip as Gabriel administered the injection. He capped the needle, neatly returned the contents to the kit, and the kit to the desk drawer as Paul rubbed at his arm and tugged down his sleeve.

“How long does it take?” he asked, shoulders already slackening.

“Not long,” answered Gabriel, coming to sit across from him again. “Make yourself comfortable.”

Paul tensed at the suggestion, as if comfort were an enemy, and Gabriel supposed that it was. If you were convinced that sleep would lead to dreams and dreams would lead to peril, then comfort did indeed seem dangerous.

After a moment, he kicked off his shoes and stretched out on the sofa, head cradled in the pillow on one side, feet on the other, but his hands clutched at the cushions, knuckles white, as if they were a raft.

“Close your eyes,” instructed Gabriel, and Paul obeyed.

His chest had a nervous hitch, eyes darting behind his lids.

“Take a slow breath in, then out,” said Gabriel. “Imagine your body getting heavy. Feel it sinking through the sofa. Down, and down.”

“I don’t … I don’t think it’s gonna … work,” said Paul, but his words were beginning to slur, his grip on the sofa starting to loosen. “I don’t…” he said again, but then trailed off. His breathing soon evened out, and the tension bled from his face. His fingers lost their nervous twitch and laid limp on the sofa.

“Can you still hear me?” asked Gabriel softly.

But Paul didn’t answer. Gabriel was neither surprised nor disappointed. It had been a small dose, but Paul’s body was clearly starved for rest. The best thing he could do right now was give it to him.

He took up his notebook and sat back, thumbing to a blank page, and for a few moments, the only sounds in the office were the quiet scratch of his pencil, and the light tap of the clock, and the soft draw of his patient’s breath.

And that was when he heard the hiss.