Free No Sleep till Wonderland by Paul Tremblay

asleep enough that I don’t remember you.”
    There are shades and hues of my sleeps that I discover every day. A panoply of consciousness levels that are complex and fickle, and they can’t be codified by the WebMD, and they can’t be learned by someone who isn’t me, because I’m alone being me, and I always sleep alone.
    Dammit. I’m getting too worked up over a throwaway comment by a detective simply doing his job.
    He says, “I never claimed to be an expert, Mr. Genevich. I won’t pretend to know what you’re going through.”
    I take out a cigarette and offer him one by pointing it at him. He declines. I say, “You’re too calm and reasonable to be a police detective. I’m guessing no one likes you at the station because you’re overly productive and efficient.”
    There’s that bird-call laugh of his he gave me out front. Can’t describe it as infectious, but it tugs a half smile out of me. He says, “Just to be clear, you’re claiming that your end of our previous conversation was performed while in the throws of automatic behavior.”
    I guess he did some familiarizing. I’m impressed but won’t admit it. “Yeah, sometimes I carry on conversations and other simple tasks while asleep. I’m fun at parties.”
    He says, “Are you awake now, Mr. Genevich?”
    A fair question, but nobody gets to ask it. My tugged-out smile retreats into the forest of my facial hair. “I think so. Unless you’re another unpleasant dream. I could be Jacob Marley, and you could be the undigested bit of beef, the crumb of cheese.”
    “I’m not into role playing.”
    “Your loss.” I pause and give some brief attention to my cigarette. “Let’s get to it, Detective. Never keep a narcoleptic waiting, or is it don’t feed him after midnight? I get the rules mixed up.”
    “I hope you’re aware that the amphetamines I found in your possession this morning are enough to warrant an arrest.”
    I almost swallow my cigarette. I’m sure he notices. I would’ve preferred the missing bag of greenies stayed missing. Everyone would’ve been happier. I talk slowly, wanting to believe my own lie, “They’re not mine.”
    “That’s what you said this morning when you were asleep. At least you and yourself have that part of the story straight.”
    “We make a good team.”
    Detective Owolewa pulls a gray piece of paper from his sports coat. “I suppose this handwritten list of side effects wasn’t yours either, Mr. Genevich.”
    I should just give in to despair now and get it over with. I completely forgot about the list, didn’t realize it was missing. I take it out on my cigarette and mash it into an ashtray.
    “That’s my list. But it’s research. Information. Data points. Just, you know, familiarizing myself with the side effects of the drug like a good detective would.” My traitorous hands hold themselves out palms up, a supplicating pose that says, Might as well put the cuffs on me now .
    “Multiple witnesses placed you at the Abbey four nights ago, Mr. Genevich. Were you at the bar?”
    Why are we going to the Abbey? This is going south too fast; we’ll be in Patagonia soon. It’s clear Gus did not visit me this morning, and now I’m wondering if he’s being lumped into the witness pile.
    “I was, and had a few drinks too many. My apologies if you find the evils of drink offensive.”
    “Temperance isn’t my concern, Mr. Genevich.” Detective Owolewa is so relaxed he should be asleep. It’d only be fair. “How well do you know the bouncer, Eddie Ryan?” He takes out a little black notebook. He’s not going to ask for my phone number.
    Whoa. Don’t like where he’s making connections. If I was nervous before, I’m facing a China Syndrome scenario now. “I know of him. I know he’s a scumbag. That night at the bar we exchanged unpleasantries. He called me a pretend cop, I told him to kiss my hairy foot, and we went about our merry ways.”
    “Did you refer to Eddie as a scumbag because