THE PEPE REPORT
Mornings, he knew, were given to the receding echoes of nightmares, always with the same creeping dread. He wakes—on the dot, without fail, without explanation, at 07:03:46—with the sounds of phantom rifle fire, as from a firing squad, still thick inside his head. It rings in his ear as his body jerks, torso twisting in a rough instant. When he comes to, he finds himself always facing the sun.
It is the dream again.
When his breathing subsides, he notices the sweat pouring from his forehead and nape mixing with his drool to create wet spots on his compillow, soon quickly absorbed into the sheen of things. Compillows were the byword, these days, for the best of sleep technology: it absorbed everything, except nightmares. Perhaps he could do something about that, he decide
