“Go on.”
“The soup is first,” Carter continued. “Creamy, perfect.
I don’t know the flavor, but it warms me.
I finish the bowl. I reach for the salad fork… but before I can touch it — the soup is back.”
“Refilled?”
“Exactly the same. Fresh, hot, full again.
Like nothing happened.”
“And you eat it again?”
“I try not to… but it smells so good.
It pulls me in. So I eat.
Again. And again.
Five, six, seven times.
Every time I finish, it returns. The salad — untouched. Waiting.
I never get there.
Never get to move on.”
Silence hung for a moment. Dr.
Greaves closed his notebook. “Mr.
Carter,” he said gently, “what you’re experiencing is not uncommon.
Your subconscious is expressing something very simple through something very elaborate.”
Carter sat forward, hopeful. “What is it? What does it mean?”
Dr.
Greaves exhaled slowly, almost dramatically, before delivering the line like a professor wrapping up a grand lecture: “It simply proves… that you cannot change courses in the middle of a dream.”
