Dr. Edward March's thirty-seventh patient of the week sat in the leather chair across from his desk and described the same dream he had heard from the other thirty-six.
"Dark forest," the man said. He was a banker, fifty years old, the kind of man who owned three houses and still couldn't sleep in any of them. "I'm walking through it, and every tree is a person, and I have a gun, and there's a voice that says--" " You are the last one," March finished for him. He had heard the exact same words from every patient. "And what do you do with the gun?" "I don't...
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