That notion seemed foreign to her at first. Why would anyone "want" cancer?
Unless what they really wanted was death.
Possibly the dreams of these people would help them discover their most deep seated fears and desires, and help them uncover the secret about why they had given up on life.
One book she read proposed a theory that some dreams involved astral travel, that the person's conscious could actually leave the body altogether and travel to different places, different realms. She wondered what would happen if she had that type of dream during her night at the Dream Lab. Would they be able to tell?
That Sunday afternoon, her mother called. "So what's new, honeybun?"
Linda debated over whether to tell her about the new job. She would probably warn her about the Dream Lab workers injecting her with drugs, the way Nancy had. "Oh, nothing much," she told her mother. "Classes are hard, the food in the cafeteria is terrible."
All through the weekend she kept a spiral notebook the way one of the dream books suggested (so she could write down her dreams immediately after she woke up).
By Monday morning the pages had stayed clean. She'd been going to bed tired and honestly could not remember dreaming. Would she ever dream again? Or was her subconscious holding back, for a spectacular nocturnal cornucopia on either Tuesday or Thursday?
Tuesday night finally arrived and a smiling Jay greeted her when she walked in. His facial expression turned to one of concern when Linda gave a weak "Hi" in return.
"Everything's okay, I hope," Jay said.
Linda sighed. "I just want something to happen tonight. So I don't feel like I'm stealing from you."
Jay laughed. "You'll be fine."
Linda changed into her pajamas, fixed the mask and wire and eased herself into bed. She talked to herself, telling herself to relax, let go, listened to calm, soothing music and gradually let go of her cares. Within a few minutes she slipped into the intermediate realm between wakefulness and full sleep. She stayed there for a while and soon entered dreamland.
She swung, on a porch swing. The bright sun bathed the rest of the yard in a golden glow, yet she had been shaded by the canopy overhead. She turned and saw a glass pitcher with a curving handle on a small table beside the swing. It had been filled with lemonade, lemon slices and ice. Fireflies had swarmed the pitcher and the table. As she swatted away the flies she saw that her hand was smaller, with the round softness she'd had as a child.