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“Will,” I sing in what I hope his still-sleeping brain hears as a friendly voice. “Will, wake up,” I say a little louder. “It’s Virginia. I’m here. Can you talk to me?”
His eyes pop open, and he looks around the darkened room, which I can see due to the infrared lenses on the cameras.
“Hey, Virginia,” he says. He never sounds upset or disappointed that I’ve failed.
“Do you remember what the dream was?”
I’ve been researching and have learned that sometimes journaling dreams can help release whatever secret they’re sharing in the dead of night. But Will refuses to journal, so he talks and I take notes. So far, he’s woken after a mangy cougar breaks into his house and eats a baby lying on his bed, just as a car he’s a passenger in crashes into oncoming traffic, as a plane he’s piloting crashes into a mountain, and when he’s teaching a seminar and is suddenly being eaten alive by ants.
I can’t link any of his nightmares to a symbol that provides clues.
“It was aChildren of the Cornkind of scene. This time, I wasn’t about to die. I was one of the murderous kids about to hack off my father’s head with a machete.”
“I wish I was with you right now,” I mumble, not actually intending for Will to hear me.
“I’ll send a car.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because that won’t help you.”
“How are you so sure? Having you beside me might be exactly what I need to get a good night’s sleep.” Will pats the blanket to his left and wiggles his eyebrows.
My insides squirm. “I worry we won’t actually get much sleep.” I realize that I don’t want to fuel his expressed desire to get naked with me. “You know, because I talk so much.”
“Speaking of, I forgot to whisper sweet nothings to the plants in my suite today. I think you should come over and make up for my lack of care and attention.”
“Will …”
“Virginia …” Will looks directly at the camera to the left of his bed, in effect, making eye contact with me. “I wish I could see you. Come over. You’re not working tomorrow, so even if you don’t sleep, does it matter? Make up for it on Saturday night. ”
“Will…” I hate how my voice sounds, half whining, half pleading.
“Give me your address. I’m sending a car. You’ve got twenty minutes to pack what you need to be comfortable.”
“You’re very bossy, Mr. Power.” And I like it.
“Well, I am your boss, and it pains me that you’ve not been fulfilling the duties outlined in your contract, so I’m changing your job duties. Address.”
I tell him. “But I need thirty minutes.”
“I’ll be asleep by then,” he jokes. “All you need to do is toss your toothbrush and a pair of clean underwear in your purse … how long will that take?”
“I’d like to shower—”
“Use mine.” It’s a command, not an offer. He stands from his bed and walks toward the camera. It’s set with a decent zoom, so the whole top of his bed fills the frame, which I guess he doesn’t realize.
“Will, you have to zoom out. All I can see is out-of-focus forehead wrinkles.”
“Give me a second.” The camera jerks left and then right and then goes black for a few seconds.
“What are you doing? Why are you breaking your camera?”
“Not breaking it.”
It comes back to life, and I’m looking into a bathroom ten times nicer than any spa I’ve ever been to. The shower looks like it could comfortably fit five.
