Dreams about Sam never arrived with the courtesy of a warning label. They ambushed Jim in deep sleep, presenting themselves with the disorienting hyper-reality of memories injected directly into his consciousness—like Netflix had started offering a "dead brother immersion experience" subscription he couldn't cancel. Tonight's visitation felt different, though—less memory, more message.
Sam stood in what appeared to be the hospital where he'd died, but the corridors stretched into impossible geometries, walls dissolving into misty light. He wore his white doctor's coat and the particular expression of fond exasperation he'd perfected during their childhood—the look that said 'I love you despite your questionable life choices.'
"You're doing better than I expected," Dream Sam said, leaning
