A mysterious outbreak robs certain people of their ability to sleep, creating a new class that is feared and ostracized—but also able to capitalize on the extra hours to earn more money. Jamie Vega, a reporter by day and hobby collector by night, discovers a new obsession when his boss commits suicide. He wants to know why. And in the process he uncovers a startling truth about what it means to be Sleepless.
In the last dream I ever had, I was eating a big, bloody hunk of steak. The details are a bit hazy now: crisp white linens and a side of roasted potatoes, wood paneling, the other faceless people at my table, but not much else. The cut of meat was definitely not a filet mignon, more like a porterhouse. The slab occupied the entire plate and threatened to spill over its border.
I cut through it with a serrated knife, and, though I’ve had amazing steaks before, I have never felt anything as visceral as the frustration I felt when, before I could finish my plate, I woke up.
Dreams. It’s been so blissful since I stopped having them, but against my nature, they’ve been surfacing in my mind lately.
That last one in particular keeps coming back. To banish these thoughts, I’ve decided the best way was to act it out in real life. I’ve added cooking to my mile-long list of hobbies. I think I’ve finally mastered the perfect porterhouse. Or, I should say, porterhouse cooked just the way I like it.
Medium-rare, with the right amount of sear. It took eight tries, meticulous timing and calibrated heat on both sides, not to mention hours of instruction videos and tons of new kitchen supplies that I didn’t already own.