"When you're interpreting dreams," Moira says, "is there any specific image, any symbol, that signifies insanity?"

"Why are you asking me this, Moira?" her therapist says.

"I don't know.  You're the expert, I guess."

"I'm not a dream expert.  Dreams mean much less to psychologists than they used to.  We don't put too much stock in dream interpretation anymore.  Nowadays it's up there with crystals and psychic surgery."

"So there's no symbol for insanity?"

"It doesn't work that way, Moira.  There isn't a one-to-one relationship.  Your brain is much more complex than that.  If you see cigar shapes everywhere it doesn't necessarily mean you're sexually repressed.  If you dream of ventriloquist's dummies it doesn't mean you're insane."

"It doesn't?"

"No."

"Doesn't necessarily or doesn't?"

"Well, there are no guarantees, Moira.  You could say that that's what we're here to find out."

On Monday, Moira wakes up in the middle of the night again, sick to her stomach, her bladder full.  She slips out of bed and walks to the bathroom, forgetting that the door is locked from the inside.  She twists the doorknob uselessly. Inside the door she hears grumblings, soft scrapings, a quiet flapping sound.

A pain pierces her side, her lower abdomen.  She doubles over from the pressure.  She wonders if she's finally getting her period, if it's back now with a vengeance.  She wonders if she's having a miscarriage.  Her breasts feel swollen, tender.

If she doesn't pee soon, she thinks, she'll spray all over the floor.

She slams her fist against the closed door, pounding.  No one answers.

She leans against the wall and half-walks, half-slides toward the kitchen.  She holds her arms tightly against her stomach, as if to keep everything in.

The kitchen.  There is water there, ice.  She feels flush, alarmingly warm.  She could use some ice.

The pain from her bladder is intense.  Under the sink is a plastic bucket, she thinks.  It will have to do.

The next morning, Moira rises early and dresses.  She tries the bathroom door, but it's still locked, hopelessly locked. Inside the door is now just silence, a void of sound.  She walks to the kitchen and sets the bucket on the tile, squats over it.  Afterwards she runs hot water in the sink, pours the contents of the bucket down the drain.  She doesn't like what she's doing so she decides not to think about it.  It's easier that way, not thinking.

She walks to a pharmacy across the street.  She buys shampoo, soap, a brush, a hair dryer.  She'll start over.  She doesn't need a bathroom.  She can use the kitchen sink for everything.

After much deliberation she also buys a home pregnancy kit.  The kit comes with a small plastic cup.  The box says she's supposed to pee in the cup.  That's okay, Moira thinks.  She doesn't have anywhere else to pee.