"I had a nightmare last night," Moira says.

"What was it about?" her therapist says.

"It was horrible."

"Was it? Describe it."

"I was giving birth to a baby.  I was in the hospital.  I was in the stirrups.  I was pushing and sweating and straining."

"And?"

"When the baby finally came out, the doctor held it up so I could see it.  He was smiling, the nurses were smiling, like I should be very proud.  But there was something wrong with the baby."

"What was wrong with it?"

"The baby's arms and legs were lifeless.  They dangled.  It's face was wooden, literally wooden.  It smiled at me.  It had painted features.  At first I didn't recognize what it was, but then I understood.  It was a ventriloquist's dummy."

"I see."

"Do you suppose it meant anything?"

"I don't know, Moira. Dreams don't always mean something.  And even when they do, the dreamer is often better capable of understanding the meaning than I am.  So, a better question is, what do you think it meant?"

"I think it meant..."

"Yes?"

"I don't think it meant anything."

"I'm sorry, Moira, I have to take this," Derek says.  He picks up his ringing cell phone and extends the tiny antenna.

Moira and Derek are at a cheerful restaurant two blocks from Moira's apartment.  Derek has agreed to meet her for lunch.  While he talks on the phone, Moira sips her iced tea.  She watches the people eating lunch around her.  At a table adjacent to hers there is a young woman with a baby.  The baby is sleeping.  Moira finds herself staring at the baby.  She looks for painted features, for wood grain.

"Sorry about that," Derek says, clicking his phone shut.

"It's okay."

"So what's up? Why did you ask me here?"

Moira thinks about this for a long time.  Finally she says:  "Nothing."

"Moira.  Come on.  You said it was important."

"Nothing.  It's nothing.  I just really missed you."

On Wednesday night, just before she goes to bed, Moira hears her bathroom door slam closed.  She approaches the door and can hear sounds within -- movement, rustling, maybe a whisper.

She tries the door but it's locked.  As far as she can tell, the door doesn't open all night.