34 CHARLOTTE MILLER
October 29
Ophelia fidgeted on the gray love-seat in my office. She stared at her hands as she spoke about the vividness of her latest dream. Her ragged school bag sat by her feet, contributing to the picture of misery I saw before me. I sat across from her in the dimly lit room, scrawling notes as she went over the details of her nightmare.
“And how did you feel when you woke up?” I asked, hiding my boredom from listening to the nonsensical dream sequence of a teenage girl.
“Every time I dream it, it feels like I am actually there. My heart beats hard and fast, my chest hurts, and the smell of blood is in my nostrils. The sound of someone screaming rings in my ears long after I’m awake. It feels like I’m dying,” Ophelia said. Don’t slap her. Don’t slap her. Yes, sh
