The nightmares are getting worse. She wakes up screaming a dozen times.
I eventually buy a second bed we both pretend is a couch. But I see her at breakfast, the bleak dedication with which she refines the drugs and neural stimulation than make her nightmares worse than everybody else's. Her readers love them; she calls it the most honest form of art.
Sometimes I dream that I'm the one doing it, that one day I'll wake up and she'll be there, and I'll tell her this was the worst one, and the last.