Walter turned into the jiffy off Hwy 50 outside Rusnick and parked his car. He climbed out, dragged himself inside for his usual coffee and cigarettes, paid the cashier, and stood just outside the door, wondering what tonight would bring, besides more sleepless nights.

Weeks ago, he’d stopped calling it insomnia, because that felt too much like a disease or illness. All he knew was that for some God-forsaken reason, he couldn’t sleep more than twenty minutes at a stretch and none of it was good sleep.

He used to spend a paycheck on those 5-minute sleep shots, but at $50 a pop, they didn’t provide the real sleep he was looking for. His body craved the deep, dreamless sleep he hadn't enjoyed in longer than he could remember.

He watched with bleary eyes as cars drove past, unable to do anything but stare with that spaced-out, numb look on his face.

"You okay, pal?"

Walter turned toward the night clerk and drew in a deep breath, let it out on a sigh.

"I'm fine," he murmured, took a drag on his cigarette. "Be better when I finally get some sleep."

"I hear ya," the clerk said with a grin of understanding. "I'd buy me a night at Sleep Land, but the price is too steep for my blood."

"Sleep Land?"

"Yeah," the clerk said. "It's that new place right off the highway, about five miles down the road, I'd say. You pay a hefty price, but I've heard it's worth the money for a good night's sleep."

Walter dropped his cigarette on the sidewalk and crushed it with the toe of his boot. "You just pay up and get to sleep?"

"Something like that. My cousin, Dawn, said she bought a package deal, but I don't know all of what they offer."

"I see," Walter said. "I'll have to check it out."

Walter drove by the sign that sat at the entrance to what looked like a retirement community. Small houses sat in neat rows with a large building in the center that had a massive "Welcome" sign on the front. Slowing down on the drive back, Walter turned into the entrance and meandered toward the building with the sign. He was greeted by a receptionist who had far too much pep for three in the morning. "How may I help you, Mr.?"

"Donovan. Walter Donovan."

"How may I help you, Mr. Donovan?"

"I heard that I can pay for a good night's sleep here?"

"You sure can," she smiled. "We have packages that range in price from $500 all the way into the several thousand dollar range, wholly based on what sort of sleep experience you'd like to have."

"Five hundred dollars for a night's sleep?"

"Oh no," the receptionist laughed softly. "That gets you five hours of sleep; however, you may have to contend with dreams that may be less pleasant than you'd prefer. Or they might be joyful and jovial. It's a toss-up."

"So how much would it cost me for eight straight hours of solid, dreamless sleep?"

"Eight-hundred for the eight hours and a thousand for the dreamless portion."

"Eighteen hundred dollars for one night's sleep?"

"That's right," the receptionist said with a smile that didn't seem to fit her mouth.

"Screw that," Walter said, but he took the pamphlet with him when he headed out the door.

Walter told himself he was done with it. Told himself that as he drove back onto the highway, pamphlet riding shotgun like an accusation. Eighteen hundred dollars for sleep was insane. Criminal, even. He could buy a used car for that. He could buy groceries for months. He could buy anything except the one thing his body was screaming for.

By the time he got home, the house greeted him with its usual enthusiasm, which was none at all. He sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the wall, counting the cracks like they might eventually organize themselves into something useful. Twenty minutes later, he woke up choking on a dream he could not remember, heart pounding like it had somewhere better to be. That was when he reached for the pamphlet.

Sleep Land promised rest in the same tone casinos promised luck. Carefully worded. Cheerfully vague. Walter rubbed his eyes and laughed quietly to himself. Eighteen hundred dollars to not dream sounded like the kind of deal you only made once, either because it worked or because you did not get the chance to complain afterward.

He checked his bank app and winced. It would hurt. But so did everything else lately. He imagined eight hours of nothing. No darkness. No thoughts. No memories sneaking up on him like unpaid bills. Just a clean stretch of unconsciousness. The idea made his hands shake.

Walter dialed the number printed at the bottom of the pamphlet before he could change his mind. It rang once. Then someone picked up, already smiling, and he realized with a small sinking certainty that Sleep Land had been expecting him.