Page 17 of The Dream Hotel

F riday afternoon. She sits on her knees, eyes closed, reciting the āyahs she remembers being taught as a child. Her limbs are tense, and her chest is a knot so tight it hurts to breathe. Still, she tries to set aside her anxious thoughts and focus her attention on the verses from the Fātiha. It would be easier if she had company in the praying, but since Amani was released in August she’s had sole use of the worship space for one hour on Fridays.

Safe-X is legally obligated to accommodate the religious needs of retainees, which it does by giving them access to a windowless storage room and an old-generation NuSpirit. It sits on a desk pushed against the wall, waiting to beam sermons in any faith or language that matches the face and file on record. It’s a temperamental device, though, and today it emits no sound, no matter how often Sara presents her face to it.

She wasn’t a prayerful person, in her life before, but as her detention dragged from days to months, she began to hunger for the numinous. In a place where everything she does is quantified and fed to an algorithm, where else could she find solace but in the words that are now bursting forth from her mouth in whispers? After the Fātiha, she recites Surat al-Falaq, and then al-Ikhlas, her enunciation slow and clear. Always, she fixes her mind on the language, its rhythmic syllables brimming with poetry and mystery.

And oneiromancy, too, she thinks. After all, Abraham had a vision that God commanded him to sacrifice his firstborn son; he might have done it, too, had the angel not appeared with a ram. Joseph dreamed that the sun, the moon, and eleven stars bowed down to him; years later, his father, mother, and brothers were on their knees in Pharaoh’s court. Muhammad saw himself enter Mecca as a pilgrim, predicting his own triumphant return from the hegira. Entire belief systems drew moral instruction from these dreams, using them to teach the believers about the nature of faith or the promise of redemption.

Time and again, dreams have changed the world.

So who is she to say that her dreams have no meaning? If her dreams about Elias raised concerns with the RAA, then perhaps she ought to look for the reason within herself, and stop blaming the algorithm for her own impulses. She must admit—to herself, at least, since she would never admit it to others—that she’s resented Elias in the past, for his impatience to start a family, his freedom from the burden of carrying twins, and even his talent at taking care of them. “You’re such a good dad,” his mother would say every time she visited, every single time, the unspoken part loud enough for Sara to hear.

Part of the reason Sara got herself a Dreamsaver was to be a better mother, to keep up with Elias. So yes, she resents him. And in the world of dreams, where her soul roams free, she must have done something terrible.

But surely, a voice inside her says, premonition has value only because it is so rare. Every night people dream multiple dreams, most of which have no meaning. They’re little more than electrical activity in the brain, evidence that the sleeping self is alive, and at play. How many dreams did Joseph have apart from the one that predicted his rise to power in Egypt? Imagine if the sages had built religions around those, too. She can’t resist a smile at this thought, and her eyes fling open. The cameras whir to adjust to her movement, and she quickly composes herself.

She has learned to wear a mask of detachment, has become so adept at it that someday, she fears, it may become her only face.

—

The sky is hazy, but the heat is rising. Victoria and three of the younger retainees play cards at a table in the exercise yard, so absorbed in their game that they don’t look up when a squirrel darts under a chair to pick up a carrot chip that dropped to the ground. Eisley Richardson seems to have convinced Alice to try out her fitness routine; they are doing push-ups together on a patch of grass. I should run, Sara tells herself as she steps on the track, I should get a proper workout for a change. The first lap is tolerable, but by the second she’s already struggling. What happened to her? She used to play soccer in high school and as an adult went on regular hiking and backpacking trips; she should be able to handle a few laps around the track. As she reaches the curve, she sees a truck backing up to the side of the main building. The rear door rolls up with a plaintive squeak, and two men in blue uniforms jump out. They must be delivering supplies to the commissary.

As she gets closer, though, she notices they’re unloading planks of wood and panels of drywall. What’s all this for? If there is damage that needs to be repaired somewhere in the facility, the CRO hasn’t mentioned it in his announcements.

Marcela calls out to her from the grass. “Want some company?”

“Sure.”

Marcela falls into step with Sara. The shoes they were issued when they were admitted aren’t designed for exercise; each footfall against the asphalt sends a shock through the feet, ankles, and knees. She’s sure they’re doing damage to their joints, but sitting around during yard time isn’t much of an alternative, either.

“So my petition was denied,” Marcela says after a minute.

“I’m sorry.”

“How could they have decided already? It’s only been, like, a week.”

It’s an unusually quick response, for sure. “Did they give you a reason?”

“The form just said ‘ Privilege Denied. File Unsatisfactory .’?”

So it would seem that maintaining professional skills isn’t enough of a reason to let Marcela have her musical instrument. There is a perverse logic to this denial; after all, no woman who’s been at Madison past the initial twenty-one-day hold has managed to keep her job in the free world. Why should a musician be treated differently than an office clerk or a truck driver? Sara feels a pang of regret at having gotten involved; now Marcela’s disappointment is hers, too. “You can always try again,” she says through her panting, “and give a different reason.”

“It looked like an automated response. I’m not sure they even read the stuff you wrote.”

Sweat is running down Sara’s face and her breathing is growing more labored. After she finishes another lap, she decides to slow down and let Marcela continue without her.

The two construction workers are unloading drywall now, while the foreman takes a call on his cell phone, loudly instructing whomever he’s talking to about how to get to Madison. “El giro está un poquito escondido detrás de unos palos verdes,” he says, “así que debes estar atento a la bandera.” A moment later, he jumps in the back of the truck and carries out a ladder. It occurs to Sara that the workers aren’t repairing anything, they’re building something.

Madison is expanding, she realizes with horror. The school wasn’t designed to house people, let alone so many. The wait times for hearings are already long. What will it be like when more people are brought in? And what about the lines for the phones or the showers or the food?

But once dreams became a commodity, a new market opened—and markets are designed to grow. Sales must be increased, initiatives developed, channels broadened. The RAA pays Safe-X to house, feed, clothe, and surveil the people retained for their dreams. Profit flows to this company the other way, too: retainees pay to make calls, receive mail, or get personal supplies. So it makes brutal sense that Safe-X wants to expand.

She watches Marcela make the turn around the track, while she’s lagging far behind. She hasn’t been feeling herself lately, and last night’s nightmare has made things worse. In the dream, she stands by the kitchen window, watching snow fall in big flurries outside. Weather like this calls for a warm soup. She puts a pot on the stove and pours a bit of olive oil, waits for it to spread. Each time she wants to add an ingredient, it materializes as if by magic in her right hand. A chopped onion, three garlic cloves, half a teaspoon of salt, a bunch of diced carrots. When the onions are translucent, she pours water, which gushes like a spring from between her fingers. And now the final ingredient—a heaping cup of antifreeze. Then the dream ends.

What is she to make of this? She hasn’t seen snow since she was three years old. She wants to believe that the flurries represent the unusual mess she’s in, which would make the antifreeze an attempt at a solution, but what if the cooking is more sinister, and she really is trying to harm her husband? Being surveilled all the time, even in her sleep, has made her unsure what to believe about herself; she no longer knows how to separate her emotions from the expectations that others have about them. Perhaps it is true what Hinton says, that the algorithm knows her better than she knows herself.

Marcela has completed her lap and caught up with Sara again. “You know what,” she says, “I’m going to petition them again.”

“Okay.”

“I’m going to offer to teach music to the other retainees. They won’t say no to an educational program.”

“Go for it.”

“You’re not gonna help me?”

“I mean, it didn’t do any good last time. It might’ve even worked against you.”

“I don’t think it’s you. My score was up three points.” A note of self-reproach enters Marcela’s voice. “Maybe the cameras picked up something.”

The workers have finished unloading the drywall. Now they sit on the bed of the truck and wait for further instructions. One of them lights a cigarette, takes a deep drag, then exhales with flourish. The other one looks across the playground at the retainees playing cards, doing sit-ups, standing on the track. He catches Sara watching him, and looks away quickly.

She heads back indoors. The sudden change in light and temperature makes her ears ring. She puts her hand on the wall to steady herself, but when she hears the squeaking of Hinton’s shoes down the hallway, she has no choice but to keep moving. (Steering clear of Hinton is the most important task she sets for herself every day.) After he turns the corner, and his footfalls recede into silence, Sara stops in front of the screen where work duties are listed by location—kitchen, laundry, and custodial; trailers A, B, C, and D; groundskeeping and maintenance.

A new row has been added: construction cleanup.

—

Standing under the shower, Sara feels somewhat rejuvenated. She really should make a habit of running, even though the only time she can exercise is in the afternoon, when the track is under direct sunlight and it’s usually too hot. The boost of energy is worth it, though. She hasn’t felt this good in ages. She finds herself making a mental list of what she wants to do before the day is over: send an email to her lawyer to ask for an update about her hearing request, pick something new to read from the library, stop by the commissary to buy toothpaste.

On the way back to her room, she comes across Toya, Lucy, and Marcela in the hallway. In one of Lucy’s hands is a mesh bag with what look like her belongings—a few manila file folders, a framed picture, a couple of sweaters, some toiletry products. Has Marcela’s teasing gone too far? Perhaps Lucy has asked for a room reassignment, even though the process would result in a note on her file and a bump to her risk score. “What’s going on?” Sara asks, flinging her towel over her shoulder and joining the group. Immediately, Lucy’s perfume makes her sneeze.

“Bless you,” Lucy says, smiling at Sara. “You didn’t hear?”

“No, what?”

“I’m being released.”

“Now?” Sara asks, stupidly.

“Yeah. As soon as they finish processing me up front.”

Sara glances at the others—she can’t be the only one who’s surprised by this turn of events. Lucy is a long hauler; she’s been denied release several times. What changed this time around? “But when was your hearing?” Sara asks. “You didn’t even tell us you had a hearing.”

“This afternoon. I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to jinx it.”

“This afternoon?” So much for the theory that early morning hearings are successful. Lucy doesn’t seem to have bothered much with her appearance, either.

Toya frowns. “But how’d you convince them to clear you?”

“That’s what I asked, too,” Marcela says.

“I don’t know,” Lucy replies with a shrug. All of a sudden she turns bashful. Her good fortune is even more apparent to her now, under the gaze of three envious retainees. “I just answered their questions.”

“Come on,” Marcela presses. “Just tell us how it went.”

“Oh, now you wanna talk to me? You’ve been giving me the silent treatment for a week.” Lucy glares at her roommate, then turns to Toya. “Look, I just told you. I answered their questions.”

But now Sara wants to know, too. She wants to find out how to sound when she addresses the board. Which details she should play up, and which to leave out. She’s learned the hard way that it’s not enough that she’s innocent; she has to deliver a convincing performance of her innocence. “Give us details.”

“What I want to know is,” Toya says, her voice as sharp as a knife, “what made this hearing special?”

“Special had nothing to do with it. That’s the whole point. They realized I’m just a regular person, not a criminal, and they approved my release.”

“So you think we’re criminals?” Toya asks between her teeth. Ever since her blood pressure medication ran out, she’s been as touchy as a live wire. “You’re the one who committed ID fraud.”

“What? Where the hell did you get that idea?”

“Aren’t you getting sued by one of your victims?”

“Yes, but I didn’t steal anyone’s ID. I’m being sued by a customer whose information was compromised after a database breach at my old job. She’s suing everyone at the company for failure of fiduciary duty, says we’re all liable for her financial losses because we didn’t protect her information. But the lawsuit is bullshit. I wasn’t in charge of the database anyway, it was someone else’s department.”

“You didn’t open credit cards with her name?”

“No, that was someone else at the company. You shouldn’t listen to gossip.”

“So they didn’t ask you about that?”

“They asked me about all kinds of things, including that. But like I said, everyone else at my old job was sued, it wasn’t about me.”

“What about the dreams you had last month?” Marcela asks, her voice barely above a whisper. “Seems like they’d think twice before letting out a pedo.”

The word takes Sara’s breath away. But the accusation seems to touch a nerve because Lucy drops the mesh bag that contains her belongings, as if she’s ready to leave it behind. Her eyes travel down the hallway toward the exit.

“Wait,” Sara says, a memory suddenly returning to her. Three weeks ago, when Lucy came to borrow Emily’s hair dryer, she’d lingered over the picture of the twins on her shelf. Dreams aren’t real, Sara reminds herself. No matter what the RAA says, it is not a crime to dream. But when it comes to children, her own children, she isn’t sure she can be so adamant. “Wait. Is that why you were asking me about my kids the other day?”

“That’s sick,” Marcela hisses. “ You’re sick.”

“No, no, no, I was just making conversation,” Lucy says, raising one hand in self-defense. Then, her voice sharper now, she adds, “You know what? I don’t have to explain myself to any of you. I’m leaving this place behind, that’s all that matters.”

The reviving effect of the shower is gone; Sara is getting sweaty now, the towel on her shoulder as heavy as a brick. None of what she’s hearing makes any sense. How can they free someone like Lucy, while keeping her locked up here? She gets the feeling that something has gone wrong, or is about to go wrong, but she’s helpless to stop it.

Marcela tries to grab Lucy’s arm, but Toya pulls her back just in time. “We didn’t do half the shit she did,” Marcela says, batting Toya’s hand away, “and she’s the one getting out. Does that make any sense to you?” Lucy is walking away now, but Marcela runs after her. “What’d you tell ’em, huh?” Her voice carries clear across the hallway.

“I just answered their questions,” Lucy says over her shoulder. “That’s all I did.”

“Snitch.” Marcela shoves her, and this time Lucy loses her balance and falls to the floor.

Hinton and Yee are already through the gate, whistles blowing, keys rattling. All the retainees in the hallway stand with their backs to the wall. “What the hell’s going on here? Everett, you need to be downstairs for your paperwork.”

“DeLeón attacked me,” Lucy tells them, standing up. “That’s what happened. She attacked me, she’s out of control.”

“Out of control?” Marcela says. “Out of control? I barely touched you!”

“I was in my room,” Toya explains, hoping to avoid another write-up. “Everett came in to say she was being released.”

“I was walking back from the shower,” Sara says.

It doesn’t matter. Hinton pulls out his Tekmerion and points it at each one of the women in turn, barely disguising his pleasure.