Sometime during the month of not seeing Becca following his return from Rome, Zach had a powerful dream which he documented in his journal the next morning:
I recall now that I acted the dream, physically performed in response to what my subconscious was telling me.
It started like this: plain sleep slowly filling with imagery—normal dream, harmless. But at some point the play got serious. Somewhere nearby, hidden, there was a message that would save my life. That the message was from you, I was absolutely certain. But how and when it arrived was a mystery. And it was somewhere near—in the apartment, probably in the bedroom, maybe even within reach.
Here my body entered the fray. I know now what I did, remember the acts, but was not conscious of what I was doing at the time. I turned on the lone light, threw back the sheets, and searched the bed. I believe I spoke then, simple questions like “Where?” or “How?” and a plea “Help me.” No response. Then I thought you were somewhere near and frantically searched the rooms. No luck.
I paused to pee, perhaps hoping that act would yank me back to reality. But thirty seconds and a toilet flush later, I was back in the bedroom searching your message. My total ignorance of its contents made my search all the more desperate.
Then I knew—my books. I went to my desk, adjusted the light, and leafed through every page of every book I had there, sure your message was hidden somewhere in those pages. Why the books? And, of course, no message.
I was near full consciousness by then, my waking mind struggling with lingering dream to claim rights to my exhausted body. Neither side won. I switched off the light, returned to bed, finally found dreamless sleep.
Your message remains hidden. Or does it? I spent a frantic half hour in blind and vulnerable search for something I knew you’d given me that’d been misplaced—message enough.