The 24-hour pharmacy on Third Avenue had turned into a gathering point for people who no longer wanted to run into their own subconscious.
The line wrapped around the block. People in pajamas. People in suits. People with dark circles so deep they looked like bruises. Some clutched folded prescriptions in sweaty hands. Others had no prescription at all—only the hope that money might be enough.
An improvised sign, taped to the automatic door, announced in large letters:
SLEEP SUPPRESSANTS SOLD OUT
NEXT SHIPMENT: NO ETA
Still, the line didn't shrink.
Because standing there meant doing something. A minimal gesture against panic. A ritual.
A woman in her early thirties, hair tied in a messy bun, rocked back and forth as if cradling an invisible baby. She spoke to the man behind her, a banker with his dress shirt open at the collar, smelling of stale coffee and sleepless nights.
"I haven't slept since yesterday," she said. "I close my eyes and I see that dirt. The hole where a building should be. And I keep thinking… what if I'm on the wrong side when it happens? What if—"
She swallowed the word, as if saying it might summon something.
The banker wasn't exactly empathetic, but he was scared enough to be gentle.
"They say it was a Dreamer," he said. "That someone… pulled the street in a dream."
She let out a humorless laugh.
"They say." She scanned the line, as if looking for the rumor's owner. "Today everyone says something. My sister said she's going to tie a spoon to her wrist so she won't fall asleep. Like that would work."
Across the street, a sound truck rolled by advertising a private clinic:
"Sleep Therapy. Immediate Evaluation. Echo Prevention. Don't let your dreams decide for you."
The sleep industry hadn't begun with fear.
It had begun with curiosity.
When Echoes were officially recognized, the world split between those who found them fascinating and those who found them dangerous. The first group paid to watch. The second paid to forget.
SomniaCorp's suppressants, created for chronic nightmares, became a luxury item. Then a necessity. Now, survival—imagined or not.
A patrol car stopped at the corner. Two officers stepped out and walked along the line. Not to organize it. To watch it.
That was how paranoia settled in: in uniform.
Near the end of the line, a teenager—his face caught between boy and man—wore a low cap and dark sunglasses, as if the world were a camera. He wasn't there out of fear. He was there for money.
He leaned toward an old man with a cane, speaking softly.
"Sir, if you've got a prescription… I can get it for you. I've got connections. Right now. No waiting."
The old man looked at him the way one looks at a stray animal.
"Connections with whom?"
The boy smiled, flashing a gold tooth that didn't match the rest of his face.
"Delivery people."
The black market was born the moment fear outweighed shame. With it came dirtier rumors: people selling "real pills" and delivering flour; people promising "shielded sleep" and handing out amphetamines; people swearing they could block Echoes with aromatic spray.
The pharmacy door slid open. An employee stepped out with a clipboard, her face worn down by repeating the obvious.
"Attention, everyone…" she raised her voice. "SomniaCorp didn't deliver today. We have no forecast. There's no point yelling. There's no point fighting."
A woman at the front of the line began to cry loudly.
"I have a small child!" she said. "He's a Dreamer! He dreams every day! And what if—"
The sentence died in the air. Since yesterday, everyone carried an what if lodged in their throat.
The banker pointed to a luminous billboard across the avenue. A famous face smiled back, eyes too bright: Raina D., oneiric influencer, celebrity Dreamer.
DreamStream — Subscribe to see what no one else sees.
In the corner of the image, a discreet notice:
Transmission paused indefinitely.
"Look at that," the banker murmured. "Even DreamStream shut down."
"They used to broadcast dreams, right?" the woman with the bun asked. "Like a reality show."
"They did." He nodded. "Now no one wants it anymore. It's not just the audience. The Dreamers are disappearing. Buying suppressants. Wiping everything. My cousin's a Dreamer… he even deleted his profile."
The word Dreamer carried a cruel ambiguity. Before, it was almost a title. A rare diagnosis that could turn into fame. Now, a mark that could turn into a target.
The line moved forward one step, more out of reflex than hope.
In that motion, a young man leaning against a wall shouted at the officers:
"What are you gonna do? Fence off the whole world?"
One of the cops turned, exhausted.
"We're gonna do what we always do," he replied. "Try to keep you alive while you come up with reasons to kill yourselves."
No one laughed.
At the counter, a man in an expensive suit argued with the clerk.
"I have a contract with SomniaCorp. I'm a premium client. I pay—" he narrowed his eyes, as if adding money were a scientific argument. "I pay triple."
"Sir," the clerk replied, without raising her voice, "there is no 'premium' when there is no product."
He stormed out, furiously typing on his phone. His briefcase bore the SomniaCorp logo embroidered in gold.
That said everything: some people could buy control. Others could only pray.
Outside, the woman with the bun gave up on the line. Not out of courage, but collapse. She sat on the curb, hugged her knees, and stared at the asphalt, as if trying to convince the street not to disappear.
The banker lifted his eyes to the sky and, for an instant, imagined a wrong color forming there.
He realized, then, that he was afraid even of his own thoughts.