THERE IS NO number 1.
I’m circling the interior of Dunham Court at MIT, peering at all the names and numbers like an old lady, while students shuffle by me. Dunham is made up of a central lawn bordered on four sides with university buildings, not unlike Bennett’s main quad, except it’s a fully closed square. CDD is listed at 1 Dunham Court, yet there is no number 1. The building at the most northwestern corner of the quad is number 2, and they increase in number as they circle around, with the highest, number 15, meeting right up with number 2 again.
I sit down on a bench and am just about to give up when I notice something peculiar. In the center of the quad is a small cupola-like building that looks as if it was removed from a rooftop and placed on the ground. It’s solid white and has a dome on top, surrounded by pillars. A woman in a copper-colored sweater has just ducked out from behind one of the pillars and is skittering in the direction of Massachusetts Avenue, books clutched to her chest.
I approach the rotunda, and begin to walk the exterior. Sure enough, next to a set of heavy wooden double doors is a sleek metal sign, almost undetectable. It reads, CENTER FOR DREAM DISCOVERY. GUSTAVE L. PETERMANN, PHD.
I press a small button just below the placard and am jolted backward when a loud intercom voice comes out of nowhere.
“Yes?”
I hesitate, not sure how to begin.
“Do you have an appointment?” The voice is female and impatient.
I think for a second. “Um . . . Sure?”
“Name, please.”
I roll my eyes, knowing this isn’t going anywhere good. “Alice Rowe.”
There is a long pause.
“You don’t have an appointment.”
“Is this an automated machine?” I ask. And what I think is another pause turns out to just be no response at all.
“I used to be a patient,” I finally say, smacking my hand on the button again. “I need to speak to Dr. Petermann.”
“Then you will need to call the number listed in your CDD handbook,” the voice says matter-of-factly.
I think for a second. “Is there a security camera out here?” I ask.
“To your left,” she eventually responds.
I look, and just above the door is a sleek white camera pointed directly at me. I pull the stack of postcards from my bag, fan them out like a poker hand, and hold them up to the lens.
“I don’t have a handbook,” I say, “because I haven’t been here in ten years. All I have are these and some whacked-out dreams of a guy that I thought was a figment of my imagination, but turns out is a real person. So like I said, I want to speak to Petermann, and I am willing to wait. There can only be one way out of this funky little rotunda, and I’m standing in front of it.”
After a moment of silence, the door clicks open. I enter the circular main floor of CDD. Across from me is a reception desk, with two sets of stairs ascending on either side behind it, meeting at a doorway at the top.
“Cool place,” I say to the girl behind the desk, her hair in a smooth bun, her face serious. Charm her, I think. So I also say, “And that is a nice . . . dress.” It is not a nice dress. It’s a hideous brown pattern with a rounded collar. It looks like something someone’s grandmother would wear. This girl is not much older than me. She’s pretty, but this dress is not doing her any favors.
“It’s the old observatory,” she explains. “And my grandmother made this for me. May I see the cards?” She holds out a hand.
I wait patiently as she examines them, then types a few things into her computer. “You can sit over there,” she says without looking up, and points aggressively to a bench on the side wall, its back curved to fit the shape of the room.
As soon as I sit down, I understand why she exiled me here. Due to something about the acoustics, I am unable to hear what she is whispering into the phone, no matter how far I lean in her direction.
“He’s coming out,” she says finally.
When Dr. Petermann descends one of the staircases, he is everything and nothing I expected. Expected are his fluffy white hair and thick spectacles. Unexpected are his spandex cycling shorts, racing top, bike shoes, and charm.
“Alice,” he says, extending a leather-gloved hand. “What a pleasure. I knew both your parents way back when.” He smiles heartily. “Please forgive the outfit. One must take advantage of these last warm days before the winter tundra sets in, correct? I’m just about to take my bike out for a spin around the river.”