bar was local, the kind of place that depended on the ebb and flow of the work day as much as the regularity of blacked-out sporting events. A TGIF, or something similar—Thomas literally couldn't remember. They paused at the entrance so that Sam could slip a five-dollar bill into a plastic Salvation Army donation bubble. Inside, one waitress stood at a faux-antique till, chatting with a woman who looked like the manager. It was completely deserted otherwise. Thomas followed Agent Logan to a front booth, feeling like an intruder despite all the signs of heavy human traffic. Compared to the sunny clamor of the street, the place seemed like a cave with dropped ceilings. It smelled of beer and sour cushions.
'So what happened back there?' Agent Logan asked, propping her elbows on their table.
Through the tinted window to her right, a parade of consumers marched along the sidewalk. A middle-class soccer mom. A brown-suited sales rep. A working-class New Jersey Devils fan. And on and on. Thomas pretended to be interested in them as he spoke.
'You know, I still remember what Neil told me at our wedding reception. He pulled me aside and pointed to Nora—she was dancing with her father, I think. "Now that" he said, "is a fine piece of tail, my friend."' Thomas ran a hand over his face and stared across the bar's murky expanse. His laugh was pained. 'He was speaking from experience, I guess.'
When he closed his eyes he could see them together. Neil and Nora.
Agent Logan studied him for a moment, her eyes wide and full of sympathy. 'You know, Professor Bible, the systematic deception of intimates is a red flag for—'
'No,' Thomas exclaimed. 'Please… spare me your FBI profiling crap. You know who I am, what I do. There's no need to insult me with half-remembered course notes from Quantico.'
Agent Logan turned her face to the window, her expression unreadable.
Thomas shook his head. 'Look, I'm sorry. I really am. It's just that…'
'Just what, Professor Bible?'
'Call me, Tommy. Please.' He paused as the waitress, a pink-faced blond, set down coasters and beers.
'Do you know what dreams are, Agent Logan?'
'I must have dozed through that part at Quantico,' she said drily.
'Well our brains are plastic networks.' He paused, then added, 'Plastic like "malleable", not like your shoes.'
'Ouch,' Samantha said, grinning.
'All the behaviors generated by our brains arise from different neural configurations. In turn, these configurations arise in response to different stimuli from our environments—it's kind of like mini-evolution: those behaviors that allow us to successfully cope with our environments are reinforced. Reproduced. Those that do not are discarded, at least ideally.'
Even as he said this, he realized he was speaking more for his own sake than for hers. Pain had a way of bending your words into circles. Had it really come to this? Sitting with a stranger in a franchise bar, spilling his guts. Was he really this alone?
'So what does this have to do with dreams?'
Thomas shrugged. 'Well, some say that dreams allow our neural networks to reconfigure themselves in possible as opposed to actual circumstances. By dreaming of different situations, our brain actually prepares itself for different possible eventualities. Dreams allow our brain to cope.'
'Like training simulations?'
'Exactly.'
Samantha frowned. 'So what does that have to do with anything?'
Thomas wiped angrily at his tears. 'Because I never, not once, dreamed that anything like this could happen.' The fist he raised to his forehead somehow became a wrist pressed against his temple. ' Fuck… ' Neil and Nora .
Thomas excused himself to make a call on his palmtop. He turned to watch Agent Logan from the middle of the abandoned dance floor. She stared out the window, the very picture of impatience and ambition—and all the more striking for it. Listening to the ring in the receiver, Thomas found himself wondering whether she had a significant other.
'So what happened back there?' Agent Logan asked, propping her elbows on their table.
Through the tinted window to her right, a parade of consumers marched along the sidewalk. A middle-class soccer mom. A brown-suited sales rep. A working-class New Jersey Devils fan. And on and on. Thomas pretended to be interested in them as he spoke.
'You know, I still remember what Neil told me at our wedding reception. He pulled me aside and pointed to Nora—she was dancing with her father, I think. "Now that" he said, "is a fine piece of tail, my friend."' Thomas ran a hand over his face and stared across the bar's murky expanse. His laugh was pained. 'He was speaking from experience, I guess.'
When he closed his eyes he could see them together. Neil and Nora.
Agent Logan studied him for a moment, her eyes wide and full of sympathy. 'You know, Professor Bible, the systematic deception of intimates is a red flag for—'
'No,' Thomas exclaimed. 'Please… spare me your FBI profiling crap. You know who I am, what I do. There's no need to insult me with half-remembered course notes from Quantico.'
Agent Logan turned her face to the window, her expression unreadable.
Thomas shook his head. 'Look, I'm sorry. I really am. It's just that…'
'Just what, Professor Bible?'
'Call me, Tommy. Please.' He paused as the waitress, a pink-faced blond, set down coasters and beers.
'Do you know what dreams are, Agent Logan?'
'I must have dozed through that part at Quantico,' she said drily.
'Well our brains are plastic networks.' He paused, then added, 'Plastic like "malleable", not like your shoes.'
'Ouch,' Samantha said, grinning.
'All the behaviors generated by our brains arise from different neural configurations. In turn, these configurations arise in response to different stimuli from our environments—it's kind of like mini-evolution: those behaviors that allow us to successfully cope with our environments are reinforced. Reproduced. Those that do not are discarded, at least ideally.'
Even as he said this, he realized he was speaking more for his own sake than for hers. Pain had a way of bending your words into circles. Had it really come to this? Sitting with a stranger in a franchise bar, spilling his guts. Was he really this alone?
'So what does this have to do with dreams?'
Thomas shrugged. 'Well, some say that dreams allow our neural networks to reconfigure themselves in possible as opposed to actual circumstances. By dreaming of different situations, our brain actually prepares itself for different possible eventualities. Dreams allow our brain to cope.'
'Like training simulations?'
'Exactly.'
Samantha frowned. 'So what does that have to do with anything?'
Thomas wiped angrily at his tears. 'Because I never, not once, dreamed that anything like this could happen.' The fist he raised to his forehead somehow became a wrist pressed against his temple. ' Fuck… ' Neil and Nora .
Thomas excused himself to make a call on his palmtop. He turned to watch Agent Logan from the middle of the abandoned dance floor. She stared out the window, the very picture of impatience and ambition—and all the more striking for it. Listening to the ring in the receiver, Thomas found himself wondering whether she had a significant other.
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