Dr. Piwitti swam through fitful sleep, letting the third scotch and soda whisk her through her dreamscape. She stood next to a talking syringe, who was sitting on the chest of a faceless young man.
“I need to find Ms. Harwell.” She said to the syringe. “Alex. Where is she?”
“She’s behind those trees.” The syringe had spindly cartoon arms with which to point and gestured to a dark forest. Linda started toward it and it moved further away from her.
“Well,” she said to herself. “That’s not tedious and cliche at all.” And she woke up.
She lay in the warm, blackness of her bedroom, staring at the ceiling, the mattress softly pressing against her back. That was the last time she was going to try lucid dreaming. She rolled over, fumbling around on her bedside for her glasses, found them and put the on. She picked up her phone and began to scroll through notifications that she had missed.
Nothing of consequence had happened in the world or at her work at all. Really? Her mind was throwing up delicious metaphors and the planet had the audacity to sit still.
She lay the phone at her side and sighed. Sometimes her mind was a far better playground than the world.
She jumped as her phone vibrated on the bed next to her and she picked it back up. It was Amity, the poor girl having to conduct her duties at this hour of the morning.
“Dr. Piwitti.” She rasped sleepily over the phone.
“Hello, Amity. What has the world done, now?”
“Nothing big, yet.” Amity was smiling. “But the fugitives are on a plane and are headed to Russia.”
“Thank you for telling me.” Piwitti rubbed her eyes. “Do we have a landing ETA?”
“In 10 hours. Plenty of time to get s good nights sleep.”
“Very true. Call me in six hours to wake me and we will get to work.”
“Yes, Doctor.” Was that exasperation at the early work morning? Or just sleepy intonation? “Goodnight, Doctor.”