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"I don't want to go home," I tell her.

She cocks her head at me like she's looking at some sad pigeon that just fell down on the sidewalk in front of her, only it's not just any pigeon, it's one she knows and goes to lunch with every afternoon. But she doesn't really care, she just wants to know if it has the plague or not, because she's worried it might be catching.

"And why not, Alex?" she asks calmly. "Are you worried about your father?"

"I mean, of course I'm worried about him. But I don't see how that would stop me from going home. He needs me after Mum's passing and all. Why would that stop me?"

"Maybe you think he'll be distant. That it will be different . . ."

"Of course it's going to be different! But that isn't it." I want to tell her she's being stupid, but I'd also like to stop going to counseling, thank you very much, so perhaps it's best I don't say anything at all.

"What are you really worried about?" she inquires, head tilted so far it looks like her ear is trying to glue itself to her shoulder-pads. Hideous blouse.

Maybe I ought to tell her. "You're a shrinkish sort, aren't you?" I say. "You can do dream interpretation and all that?"

"Well, no, not really," she replies, leaning back in her chair with a poorly disguised twinge of distaste. "I'm not a 'shrink,' Alex, I only have a master's in counseling, and quite frankly, the vast majority of the profession believes that dream interpretation is pure rubbish. Freud isn't exactly in favor anymore."

"But he gave cocaine to his patients, I'd say that was a smart move right there."

I can see her face twitching to tell me how cocaine raises dopamine levels and can induce psychosis, and how that's probably not a good idea when you're treating schizophrenics with too much dopamine already. But I could be wrong, maybe she just twitches about drugs in general. Maybe she's actually jonesing for a gram right now. Or maybe she's a recovering schizophrenic with tardive dyskinesia. You never know.

"So the Library's in my dreams, again, only it's taller," I begin with no warning, because I know it pisses her off not to lead. "It's so massive, in fact, that there's a two-way system to get about, and you can either walk through the lower levels, or glide along zip-lines over the tops."

"The Library?" she interrupts. "Which library? The city library?"

"No, my dad's. He's very literate, you know. Some people are."

I want her to glare at me, but she scratches out some angular notes on a legal pad instead.

"So I was walking through the Library last night, and I can't tell if it's so large because the shelves have grown, or because I've simply diminished. It could go either way, you know, in a dream. But, to be honest, the Library's not even that relevant to this part, because I'm immediately thrust into the Eighth Street Bakery, and there's that girl in there, the one with lavender-colored hair, total punk chick, blazing hot, wearing nothing but her apron. She's made rows upon rows of fabulous cakes, though I know they're not going to taste as good as they look because they're coated in fondant, and fondant's closer to chalk than icing."

I pause, so she has a chance to ask me if I wanted to eat them anyway, but she just writes something down in blue ballpoint and casts me an inquisitive glance.

"So, anyway," I continue, "she tells me I can't touch them, even if I want to, because they're for the swans. Obviously, I have no idea what the hell that means, so I ask" (staring pointedly at my silent counselor). "And you know what she says?"

Pause.

"Okay then, Alex, what does she say?"

"She says to go to my old boss in the restaurant next door, the one where I used to wait tables during the summer, until that incident with the soup. He's placing little cartons of lemongrass onto a vat of ice, and he doesn't look especially pleased to see me. I suppose ill will carries over into the subconscious, right? I'm sure it does. Anyway, he just mutters something about swans and dinner, how it'll all be over then, and he'll never have to see me again."

"Is that what you're worried about?" my counselor interjects.

"What?"

"Do you think you'll be poisoned if you go home?"

"Hell no," I snap. "Let me finish."

She settles back resentfully.

"So I ramble my way back to the Library, a little shaky now, and there's Stopwatch Jack. Which is just great."

"Wait," says my counselor. "Who's Stopwatch Jack?"

"I didn't tell you about him? He was my imaginary friend as a kid. Wears a black oilskin, black and red boots, like some early twentieth century gent. Clawed, like everything kids come up with. And he jumps insanely high, which is how I found him, perched on a bookcase like a demented bat.

"He goes, 'What's all this about a dinner, Alex? It's been ages, why haven't you invited me?'

"But he should know, I've never purposely invited him anywhere. Rather, he was a sort of wart that hopped onto my finger and tagged along, whether I wanted him to or not." I swallow hard. "He was sort of involved in the soup incident."

"Oh." A short sound, but something's clicked in her blonde, shellacked head.

"I climb the shelves nearest me and attempt to zip-line to the fellow, but he stops my sneakers in mid-air and careens the whole line into a bookcase, trying to smash my head in, I think. Because that was why he was called Stopwatch, you know. Because he can stop anything he likes, even time."

"So that's why you're afraid?"

"Yeah," I mumble. "Something's going to happen."

* * *

But I go home anyway, because Da does need me, and it's stupid, really, worrying about dreams.

As soon as the plane lands, I take a taxi to the Eight Street Bakery, and there's the beautiful punk girl with lavender hair, but I don't ask her about swans, not a word. I just pick up some bagels for Da (onion, because that's his favorite, even though it hurts his guts sometimes) and walk right home.

But Stopwatch Jack is on the doorstep, waiting for me.

"Hello, Alex," he says. And smiles.

I follow him inside.

Description
"I don't want to go home," I tell her.

She cocks her head at me like she's looking at some sad pigeon that just fell down on the sidewalk in front of her, only it's not just any pigeon, it's one she knows and goes to lunch with every afternoon. But she doesn't really care, she just wants to know if it has the plague or not, because she's worried it might be catching.

"And why not, Alex?" she asks calmly. "Are you worried about your father?"

"I mean, of course I'm worried about him. But I don't see how that would stop me from going home. He needs me after Mum's passing and all. Why would that stop me?"

"Maybe you think he'll be distant. That it will be different . . ."

"Of course it's going to be different! But that isn't it." I want to tell her she's being stupid, but I'd also like to stop going to counseling, thank you very much, so perhaps it's best I don't say anything at all.

"What are you really worried about?" she inquires, head tilted so far it looks like her ear is trying to glue itself to her shoulder-pads. Hideous blouse.

Maybe I ought to tell her. "You're a shrinkish sort, aren't you?" I say. "You can do dream interpretation and all that?"

"Well, no, not really," she replies, leaning back in her chair with a poorly disguised twinge of distaste. "I'm not a 'shrink,' Alex, I only have a master's in counseling, and quite frankly, the vast majority of the profession believes that dream interpretation is pure rubbish. Freud isn't exactly in favor anymore."

"But he gave cocaine to his patients, I'd say that was a smart move right there."

I can see her face twitching to tell me how cocaine raises dopamine levels and can induce psychosis, and how that's probably not a good idea when you're treating schizophrenics with too much dopamine already. But I could be wrong, maybe she just twitches about drugs in general. Maybe she's actually jonesing for a gram right now. Or maybe she's a recovering schizophrenic with tardive dyskinesia. You never know.

"So the Library's in my dreams, again, only it's taller," I begin with no warning, because I know it pisses her off not to lead. "It's so massive, in fact, that there's a two-way system to get about, and you can either walk through the lower levels, or glide along zip-lines over the tops."

"The Library?" she interrupts. "Which library? The city library?"

"No, my dad's. He's very literate, you know. Some people are."

I want her to glare at me, but she scratches out some angular notes on a legal pad instead.

"So I was walking through the Library last night, and I can't tell if it's so large because the shelves have grown, or because I've simply diminished. It could go either way, you know, in a dream. But, to be honest, the Library's not even that relevant to this part, because I'm immediately thrust into the Eighth Street Bakery, and there's that girl in there, the one with lavender-colored hair, total punk chick, blazing hot, wearing nothing but her apron. She's made rows upon rows of fabulous cakes, though I know they're not going to taste as good as they look because they're coated in fondant, and fondant's closer to chalk than icing."

I pause, so she has a chance to ask me if I wanted to eat them anyway, but she just writes something down in blue ballpoint and casts me an inquisitive glance.

"So, anyway," I continue, "she tells me I can't touch them, even if I want to, because they're for the swans. Obviously, I have no idea what the hell that means, so I ask" (staring pointedly at my silent counselor). "And you know what she says?"

Pause.

"Okay then, Alex, what does she say?"

"She says to go to my old boss in the restaurant next door, the one where I used to wait tables during the summer, until that incident with the soup. He's placing little cartons of lemongrass onto a vat of ice, and he doesn't look especially pleased to see me. I suppose ill will carries over into the subconscious, right? I'm sure it does. Anyway, he just mutters something about swans and dinner, how it'll all be over then, and he'll never have to see me again."

"Is that what you're worried about?" my counselor interjects.

"What?"

"Do you think you'll be poisoned if you go home?"

"Hell no," I snap. "Let me finish."

She settles back resentfully.

"So I ramble my way back to the Library, a little shaky now, and there's Stopwatch Jack. Which is just great."

"Wait," says my counselor. "Who's Stopwatch Jack?"

"I didn't tell you about him? He was my imaginary friend as a kid. Wears a black oilskin, black and red boots, like some early twentieth century gent. Clawed, like everything kids come up with. And he jumps insanely high, which is how I found him, perched on a bookcase like a demented bat.

"He goes, 'What's all this about a dinner, Alex? It's been ages, why haven't you invited me?'

"But he should know, I've never purposely invited him anywhere. Rather, he was a sort of wart that hopped onto my finger and tagged along, whether I wanted him to or not." I swallow hard. "He was sort of involved in the soup incident."

"Oh." A short sound, but something's clicked in her blonde, shellacked head.

"I climb the shelves nearest me and attempt to zip-line to the fellow, but he stops my sneakers in mid-air and careens the whole line into a bookcase, trying to smash my head in, I think. Because that was why he was called Stopwatch, you know. Because he can stop anything he likes, even time."

"So that's why you're afraid?"

"Yeah," I mumble. "Something's going to happen."

* * *

But I go home anyway, because Da does need me, and it's stupid, really, worrying about dreams.

As soon as the plane lands, I take a taxi to the Eight Street Bakery, and there's the beautiful punk girl with lavender hair, but I don't ask her about swans, not a word. I just pick up some bagels for Da (onion, because that's his favorite, even though it hurts his guts sometimes) and walk right home.

But Stopwatch Jack is on the doorstep, waiting for me.

"Hello, Alex," he says. And smiles.

I follow him inside.