Chapter Twelve: The Systems Persist (Part I)

World 251

The setup was for dreams, and K. was being configured for sleep, and the technicians were explaining that proper dream initialization required careful calibration.

"Your dream parameters are being set," the technician said. "This determines the range and quality of your nocturnal experiences."

K. lay in the configuration chair while machines hummed around him. His sleep was being programmed—the types of dreams he would have, the emotions they would produce, the resolution at which he would experience them.

"Can I choose my own dreams?" K. asked.

"You can request preferences. The system accommodates where possible. But the fundamental parameters are set by optimization algorithms."

K. requested pleasant dreams. The system noted his preference.

That night, he dreamed pleasantly. The dreams were optimized for positive emotional impact—beautiful scenes, satisfying narratives, outcomes that resolved happily.

"How did you sleep?" the technician asked at his follow-up.

"Well. The dreams were nice."

"The configuration is working. We'll adjust as needed based on performance data."

K. slept configured sleep. His dreams were managed, monitored, adjusted for optimal output.

He never had nightmares anymore. He never had surprises.

His sleep was pleasant, predictable, and somehow empty—the managed dreams lacking the wild unpredictability that had once made dreaming feel like discovery.

World 252

The densities were changing, and K. was denser than he had been, and the density authority was explaining that the shift was within normal parameters.

"Your physical density has increased by 12%," the officer said. "That's consistent with standard densification patterns for your age."

K. felt heavier. Not his weight—his mass per unit volume. He took up the same space but contained more.

"Is this dangerous?" K. asked.

"Densification is natural. As you age, your particles pack more tightly. You become more concentrated."

K. looked at his hands. They looked the same, but they were denser now—more matter in the same space, more existence in the same volume.

"What happens if I keep densifying?" K. asked.

"Eventually, you reach terminal density. At that point, you're too concentrated to function normally. But that's decades away."

K. went home with his increased density. He moved more slowly—not because he was heavier, but because his dense body required more energy to accelerate.

Each step was effort. Each movement was work.

He was becoming more substantial, more real in a physical sense. The universe was packing him tighter, making him more of himself in less space.

He didn't know if this was good. He only knew it was happening, and would continue happening, until he was as dense as a person could be.

World 253

The verification had failed, and K. was unverified, and the verification office was explaining that unverified status had significant consequences.

"Your existence cannot be verified," the officer said. "The usual proofs—documentation, biometrics, witness testimony—have all failed to confirm that you are who you claim to be."

"I am K.," K. said. "I know who I am." Though even as he said it, he wondered which K. he meant. The one who had been married to weather. The one who had designed fatal dreams. The one who had existed in a world where words had weight. All of them were him, and none of them matched the documentation in this office.

"Self-assertion is not verification. Anyone can claim to be anyone. We need external confirmation."

K. tried to provide external confirmation. He showed identification, offered fingerprints, submitted to DNA analysis.

"The ID is unverifiable. The fingerprints don't match any database. The DNA is—" the officer paused, "—inconclusive."

K. was unverified. He existed—he was standing in the office, clearly present—but his existence couldn't be officially confirmed.

"What do I do?" K. asked.

"You function with limited privileges. Unverified persons can't vote, can't access certain services, can't be fully recognized by the state."

K. walked home as an unverified person. He was real, but unofficially. He existed, but without proof.

The world continued around him, full of verified persons who knew who they were and could prove it. K. moved among them, unable to prove his own reality, dependent on a verification that might never come.

World 254

The settings were for weather, and K. was adjusting his personal atmospheric preferences, and the climate interface was offering options he didn't understand.

"You can customize precipitation frequency, temperature range, and wind intensity," the interface said. "What are your preferences?"

K. looked at the options. Rainfall: daily, weekly, monthly, never. Temperature: fixed, variable, seasonal, chaotic. Wind: calm, moderate, intense, extreme.

"What's normal?" K. asked.

"Normal varies. There is no standard weather configuration. Everyone creates their own atmospheric experience."

K. chose moderate rain, variable temperature, and calm wind. The settings were applied.

His weather changed. The rain came when scheduled—moderate, predictable. The temperature varied within his chosen range. The wind stayed calm.

"Is this what you wanted?" the interface asked.

"I don't know. I've never chosen my weather before."

K. lived with his configured climate. It rained when it was supposed to rain. The temperature never surprised him.

But something was missing. The weather no longer felt like weather—it felt like settings. The storms didn't excite him. The sun didn't feel earned.

He had optimized his climate and lost something in the optimization.

World 255

The warranties were void, and K. had exceeded the terms on everything, and nothing about him was covered anymore.

"Your comprehensive warranty package has been voided," the agent said. "All coverage terminated."

K. looked at the list of voided warranties. Emotional warranty: void. Physical warranty: void. Cognitive warranty: void. Identity warranty: void.

"What did I do?" K. asked.

"Excessive wear. Improper use. Failure to maintain according to specifications. The warranties have protections against this kind of degradation."

K. felt his unwarrantied existence. Everything he was, everything he had—now unprotected, uncovered, unsupported.

"Can I buy new warranties?" K. asked.

"New warranties are available for items without pre-existing conditions. You have extensive pre-existing conditions. Coverage is not available."

K. went home without coverage. His emotions could fail—no replacement. His body could break—no repair. His mind could degrade—no restoration.

He was on his own, completely. Whatever happened, he would face it without the safety net of warranty protection.

The vulnerability was terrifying. And somehow, also clarifying.

He was his own responsibility now. He would maintain himself, or he wouldn't. The choice—and the consequences—were entirely his.

World 256

The rhythms were changing, and K. was out of sync with the world, and the synchronization office was explaining that rhythm misalignment was correctable.

"Your personal rhythm is 23.7 hours," the officer said. "The world operates on a 24-hour cycle. You're constantly drifting out of phase."

K. felt the misalignment. He was tired when the world was awake. He was alert when the world slept. His body moved to a different beat than everyone else's.

"Can I change my rhythm?" K. asked.

"Rhythm adjustment is available. We can lengthen your cycle to 24 hours. The process takes about a week."

K. underwent rhythm adjustment. Each day, his cycle was stretched slightly—a few minutes added, a small correction applied.

By the end of the week, he was synchronized. His 24-hour cycle matched the world's 24-hour cycle. He was tired and alert at the right times.

"How do you feel?" the officer asked.

"In sync. For the first time, I feel in sync."

K. lived on the world's schedule. He slept when the world slept. He woke when the world woke.

The isolation of misalignment was gone. He was part of the rhythm now, one voice in the universal timing.

But sometimes, late at night, he felt his original 23.7-hour self stirring—the natural rhythm that had been corrected away, the misalignment that had been who he was.

World 257

The allocation was for resources, and K. was receiving his monthly distribution, and the distribution center was explaining that this month's allocation was reduced.

"Your resource allocation has been decreased by 15%," the administrator said. "This is due to systemic scarcity and population growth."

K. looked at his allocation: food units, energy credits, space allowance, emotional rations. All reduced by 15%.

"How do I live on less?" K. asked.

"Efficiency. Prioritization. Some resources are more essential than others. You'll learn to manage."

K. took his reduced allocation and went home. He had 15% less of everything—less food, less energy, less space, less feeling.

He learned to manage. He ate smaller portions, used less power, occupied less room. He felt less intensely, rationing his emotional responses.

"Is this enough?" he asked himself.

It wasn't enough. It was what he had, but it wasn't enough.

He survived on his allocation. He didn't thrive. He didn't grow. He existed within his 15% reduction, waiting for the month when allocations might increase.

They never increased. Each month, the allocation was the same or less. The scarcity was permanent, the reduction was ongoing.

K. learned to need less. He became smaller in his needs, in his expectations, in his sense of what was possible.

World 258

The synchronization was for emotions, and K. was being synced with the collective feeling, and the process would align his inner life with everyone else's.

"Emotional synchronization ensures harmony," the technician said. "When everyone feels the same thing at the same time, conflict is reduced."

K. felt the synchronization happening—his individual emotions being tuned, calibrated, brought into alignment with the collective mood.

"What will I feel?" K. asked.

"What everyone feels. Joy when the collective is joyful. Sadness when the collective mourns. You'll be part of the emotional whole."

K. emerged from synchronization. The world felt different. When he looked at strangers, he felt what they felt. Their emotions were his emotions. There was no separation between his inner life and theirs.

"Is this normal?" K. asked.

"This is the new normal. Individual emotion is isolated. Synchronized emotion is connected."

K. lived connected. He laughed when the collective laughed. He cried when the collective cried. His feelings were not his own—they were shared, public, part of the emotional commons.

The loneliness was gone. The uniqueness was gone too.

He felt with everyone, which meant he felt like no one in particular. He was part of the emotional whole, and the whole was all there was.

World 259

The passwords were for weight, and K. had forgotten the codes that allowed his body to maintain its mass, and the gravity office was explaining that password recovery was a lengthy process.

"Your weight passwords have been reset too many times," the officer said. "The system has locked you out. You'll need to go through identity verification before you can access your gravitational settings."

K. felt his weight becoming unstable. Without the passwords, his body couldn't maintain consistent mass. He fluctuated—heavier one moment, lighter the next.

"How long does verification take?" K. asked.

"Two to three weeks. During that time, your weight will be unmanaged."

K. lived through the unmanaged weeks. His weight changed constantly—he was heavy at breakfast, light at lunch, average by dinner. He couldn't predict what he would weigh from moment to moment.

"Is this dangerous?" he asked.

"Not physically. But socially, unpredictable weight is disruptive. People expect consistent mass. Fluctuation makes others uncomfortable."

K. watched people react to his weight instability. They stepped back when he grew heavy. They reached out when he grew light, as if he might float away.

The verification came through. K. regained his passwords. His weight stabilized.

But he remembered the fluctuation—the strange freedom of not knowing what he would weigh, the disorientation of inconsistent mass.

Stability was better, probably. Stability was normal. But the instability had been interesting, in its unsettling way.

World 260

The assessment was constant, and K. was being evaluated continuously, and the assessors were explaining that permanent monitoring was for his own benefit.

"Your performance is tracked in real time," the assessor said. "This allows us to provide instant feedback and immediate intervention when needed."

K. felt the monitoring—sensors in his environment, in his devices, possibly in his body. Everything he did was observed, measured, judged.

"What are you assessing?" K. asked.

"Everything. Productivity, health, social contribution, emotional stability. All metrics are tracked. All deviations are flagged."

K. tried to live normally, but normal felt different under observation. Every action was a performance. Every decision was evaluated.

"What happens when I deviate?" K. asked.

"Corrective measures. Suggestions, interventions, adjustments. The goal is to keep you within optimal parameters."

K. stayed within parameters. He avoided deviation, prevented flagging, maintained the metrics that the assessors tracked.

His life became a perfect record. No deviations. No flags. No interventions.

But the life wasn't his—it was a performance for the assessors. The person he might have been, the choices he might have made, the deviations that might have defined him—all suppressed, all avoided, all prevented by the constant assessment that kept him optimally, emptily, perfectly normal.

World 261

The configuration was for focus, and K. was being optimized for attention, and the process would determine what he could notice and what he couldn't.

"Your focus is being configured for efficiency," the technician said. "We're eliminating distracting stimuli and enhancing relevant inputs."

K. felt his attention being shaped. Some things became sharper—work-related information, productive activities. Other things faded—irrelevant details, unproductive interests.

"What am I losing?" K. asked.

"Nothing important. Background noise. Distractions. The things that consumed attention without producing value."

K. emerged from configuration with optimized focus. He could concentrate on work effortlessly. His attention never wandered to unproductive things.

But the world seemed thinner. The details he used to notice—the texture of leaves, the pattern of light on water—were gone. His focus had been narrowed to what mattered, and what mattered had been defined by someone else.

"Is this better?" K. asked.

"You're 37% more productive. Your focus metrics are excellent."

K. lived with his configured attention. He accomplished more. He noticed less.

The efficiency was real. The loss was also real. He had traded peripheral awareness for central focus, and the trade felt like it had cost more than it had gained.

World 262

The calibration was for shapes, and K. was being adjusted to standard geometric specifications, and the process would correct any deviations from the norm.

"Your shape has drifted from specifications," the calibrator said. "Your angles are off by 0.3 degrees. Your curves deviate by 2.1%."

K. looked at his shape. It had always felt right—the particular configuration of his geometry. But apparently, it was wrong. Deviant. Off-specification.

"What happens during calibration?" K. asked.

"We adjust your geometry to match the standard. Your angles become exact. Your curves become precise."

K. underwent calibration. He felt his shape being corrected—the slight adjustments, the subtle straightening, the small corrections that brought him into alignment with the specification.

When it was over, he was standard. His angles were exact. His curves were precise.

"How do you feel?" the calibrator asked.

"Correct. I feel correct."

He felt nothing distinctive. His shape matched the specification, but the specification was generic. He was geometrically correct and personally unremarkable.

The deviation had been him—the 0.3 degrees, the 2.1%. Now he was everyone's shape. Now he was the standard.

World 263

The pressures were changing, and K. was experiencing force fluctuations, and the pressure authority was explaining that atmospheric density was in flux.

"The local pressure has been unstable," the officer said. "You're experiencing variable atmospheric conditions. This is temporary."

K. felt the pressure changes. Sometimes the air was heavy, pressing down on him, making movement difficult. Sometimes it was light, almost absent, making him feel exposed.

"When will it stabilize?" K. asked.

"Unknown. Pressure patterns are affected by multiple factors. We can't predict when stability will return."

K. lived with the instability. He woke each morning not knowing what the pressure would be. He went through days that were crushing and days that were thin.

His body adapted—or tried to adapt. But adaptation was hard when the conditions kept changing. He could never settle into a state because the state kept shifting.

"Is everyone experiencing this?" K. asked.

"Everyone in your zone. The pressure instability is local."

K. looked at other zones—places where pressure was stable, where air had consistent weight.

He couldn't move. His zone was his zone. The instability was his to endure.

He endured. He waited. The pressure continued to fluctuate, and K. continued to exist within its uncertain force.

World 264

The loops were for documentation, and K. was trapped in a cycle of paperwork, and the administrative office was explaining that the cycle was necessary for records integrity.

"You've completed Form 47-A," the clerk said. "That requires Form 47-B to validate it. Form 47-B requires Form 47-C for authorization. Form 47-C references Form 47-A for initial data."

K. looked at the forms. They referenced each other in a closed circuit. Each form required another form, which required another, which required the original.

"How do I complete the cycle?" K. asked.

"You complete each form in sequence. When you reach 47-A again, you update it with the information from 47-C, then repeat 47-B with the updated 47-A data."

K. completed the cycle. 47-A to 47-B to 47-C to 47-A again. The forms accumulated, each iteration slightly different, the paperwork growing without progress.

"Is this necessary?" K. asked.

"Necessary for records integrity. The documentation must be complete. Completeness requires iteration."

K. continued to iterate. The forms multiplied. The cycle continued.

He was documenting his existence in a loop that had no exit—a permanent record of repeated effort, a file that grew but never finished.

World 265

The tuning was for dreams, and K. was having his sleep adjusted, and the technicians were explaining that fine-tuning improved nocturnal efficiency.

"Your dreams have been running 7% below optimal," the technician said. "We're adjusting the parameters to improve output."

K. didn't know what dream output meant. He slept, he dreamed, he woke. The process seemed simple.

"What are you optimizing?" K. asked.

"Emotional processing. Memory consolidation. Creative problem-solving. Dreams serve functions. We're making your dreams function better."

K. underwent dream tuning. The adjustment was invisible—he felt nothing during the process, noticed nothing when he slept.

But his dreams were different. They were more purposeful, more efficient. He processed emotions cleanly. He consolidated memories quickly. His problems resolved themselves overnight.

"How do you feel?" the technician asked.

"Rested. Resolved. My dreams seem to work now."

K. slept optimized sleep. His dreams were efficient.

But efficiency wasn't the same as meaning. The dreams no longer surprised him. They no longer showed him things he hadn't known he was thinking.

They worked. They functioned. They served their purpose.

But they were no longer explorations. They were no longer his.

World 266

The interference was with weather, and K.'s climate was being disrupted, and the meteorological authority was explaining that the disruption was external.

"Your personal weather is being affected by neighboring atmospheric systems," the officer said. "The interference is causing irregularities."

K. looked at his weather. It was behaving strangely—rain when sun was scheduled, wind when calm was expected. The interference was visible in the chaos.

"Can you stop it?" K. asked.

"We're negotiating with the neighboring systems. Atmospheric boundaries are being renegotiated. Until then, the interference continues."

K. lived with interfered weather. His climate was not his own—it was a mixture of his settings and the intruding conditions from neighboring zones.

"Is this common?" K. asked.

"Weather is inherently borderless. Interference is constant. We try to manage it, but perfect isolation is impossible."

K. accepted the interference. His weather would never be purely his. It would always be affected by what was happening nearby.

The storms that weren't his storms. The sunshine that wasn't his sunshine. The climate that was collaborative, whether he wanted collaboration or not.

He lived in shared weather, affected by forces he couldn't control, experiencing conditions he hadn't chosen.

World 267

The vibrations were changing, and K. was resonating at different frequencies, and the resonance authority was explaining that vibrational drift was normal with age.

"Your fundamental frequency has shifted from 432 Hz to 427 Hz," the officer said. "That's standard vibrational aging."

K. felt the shift. He hummed differently now—not audibly, but at some level below perception. His resonance was lower, slower, closer to silence.

"What does this mean?" K. asked.

"Your interactions with the world will change. Lower frequencies connect with different things. Some relationships will become easier. Others will become harder."

K. moved through the world at 427 Hz. Things that had resonated before now felt distant. Things that had been distant now felt closer.

"Is this loss or change?" K. asked.

"Both. Every vibrational shift is both. You lose some harmonies, gain others. The total resonance is conserved, just differently distributed."

K. accepted his new frequency. He was 427 Hz now, whatever that meant in terms of existence. The harmony of his life was different—not worse, not better, just different.

He would continue to shift. He would continue to age vibrationally. Eventually, he would resonate at frequencies he couldn't imagine now.

The drift was slow. The change was constant. The music of his existence was modulating toward some final note he couldn't yet hear.

World 268

The normalization was for emotions, and K. was being brought into standard feeling ranges, and the process would eliminate his emotional outliers.

"Your joy exceeds normal parameters," the normalizer said. "Your grief also exceeds. You feel too much, in both directions."

K. felt his excessive emotions. The joy that sometimes overwhelmed him. The grief that sometimes paralyzed him. The intensity that made life feel like something.

"Is feeling too much a problem?" K. asked.

"It creates volatility. The system works best when emotions are within predictable ranges. Your outliers disrupt the average."

K. underwent emotional normalization. The extremes were removed—the too-much joy, the too-much grief. He was brought into the middle, the safe range, the predictable zone.

"How do you feel?" the normalizer asked.

"Moderate. I feel moderate."

K. lived with moderate emotions. Nothing too much. Nothing too little.

The highs were gone. The lows were gone. The middle remained—a flat plain of adequate feeling, appropriate response, normalized experience.

He didn't suffer as much. He didn't rejoice as much.

He felt what was normal to feel, which was less than he had felt before, which was supposedly better, which felt like less.

World 269

The tuning was for emotions, and K. was having his feelings adjusted, and the technicians were explaining that emotional precision required regular calibration.

"Your sadness is 3.2% off target," the technician said. "We're adjusting it to match the standard."

K. felt the tuning happening—his sadness being brought into alignment, calibrated to match what sadness was supposed to feel like.

"What's the standard?" K. asked.

"Collective average. Sadness should feel like everyone's sadness. Individual variation creates communication problems."

K. emerged from tuning with standardized sadness. When he was sad now, he was sad in the same way everyone else was sad. The feeling was interchangeable.

"Is this better?" K. asked.

"It's clearer. When you express sadness, others understand it immediately. There's no interpretation required."

K. lived with clear emotions. His feelings matched the standard. Communication was easy.

But something was lost in the clarity. His sadness had been his—distinctive, particular, the way he experienced loss. Now it was everyone's sadness, generic and shared.

He could communicate perfectly. He could no longer be understood personally.

World 270

The sync was for gravity, and K. was being aligned with standard gravitational pull, and the process would make his weight consistent across all locations.

"Your gravitational response varies by location," the officer said. "You weigh different amounts in different places. We're synchronizing you to the global average."

K. felt the sync happening—his relationship to gravity being standardized, his weight becoming consistent regardless of where he stood.

"I used to feel lighter in some places," K. said. "Heavier in others."

"That was inconsistent. Now you'll feel the same everywhere. Universal weight."

K. emerged from sync with universal gravitational response. He weighed exactly the same everywhere—in mountains, in valleys, in any location on any surface.

The variation was gone. The places that had felt different now felt the same.

"Is this better?" K. asked.

"It's simpler. You know what to expect. Your weight is your weight, everywhere."

K. moved through a uniform gravitational experience. Every step felt the same. Every surface pulled equally.

The world had become flat—not geometrically, but experientially. There were no light places, no heavy places. Only weight, consistent and unremarkable.

World 271

The remediation was for attention, and K. was being corrected for focus deficiencies, and the process would bring his concentration to acceptable levels.

"Your attention span is 47% below standard," the remediation officer said. "We're implementing corrective measures."

K. felt the remediation—his attention being extended, stretched, forced to hold longer than it naturally did.

"Is this permanent?" K. asked.

"The correction will hold as long as you maintain the practices. Regular reinforcement is required."

K. emerged with corrected attention. He could focus longer, hold thoughts more steadily, attend to tasks that had previously defeated him.

"How do you feel?" the officer asked.

"Focused. Uncomfortably focused."

K. lived with his corrected attention. The focus was there—persistent, inescapable. He couldn't not pay attention. The correction had removed his ability to drift.

His productivity increased. His stress also increased. The constant focus was exhausting.

"Is this what normal attention feels like?" K. asked.

"This is what effective attention feels like. Normal may be lower. But normal isn't the goal."

K. focused on everything, because he couldn't do otherwise. The remediation had fixed his deficiency and created a new problem: attention that wouldn't stop, focus that couldn't release.

World 272

The sync was for attention, and K. was being aligned with collective awareness, and the process would connect his focus to everyone else's.

"Attention synchronization creates shared awareness," the syncing officer said. "When one person notices something, everyone synchronized notices it too."

K. felt the sync happening—his attention becoming linked, his focus becoming shared.

"What will I notice?" K. asked.

"What the collective notices. Important events, significant changes, things that matter to everyone."

K. emerged synced. His attention was no longer his alone. When the collective focused, he focused. When the collective looked away, he looked away.

"Is anything private?" K. asked.

"Private attention is possible but requires effort. The default is shared. You have to actively disconnect to notice things individually."

K. lived with shared attention. He noticed what everyone noticed. The things that captured the collective's focus captured his.

The private things—the details only he would have seen—faded. They weren't worth noticing because no one else was noticing them.

He was part of the attention whole now. His awareness was a node in the network.

What he saw, everyone saw. What everyone ignored, he ignored too.

World 273

The approval was for shapes, and K. had submitted his current geometry for review, and the approval board was deliberating.

"Your shape application is under consideration," the board chair said. "We're evaluating whether your current configuration meets standards."

K. waited for the verdict. His shape—the geometry he had lived with, the form that was his identity—was being judged.

"What happens if I'm not approved?" K. asked.

"Modification. Your shape would be adjusted to meet standards. Non-approved shapes cannot persist."

K. thought about modification. His angles changed, his curves altered, his geometry remade by committee decision.

"On what basis do you approve?" K. asked.

"Compatibility. Efficiency. Aesthetic contribution. Your shape must serve the collective."

The deliberation continued. Hours passed, then days. K.'s shape remained in limbo—neither approved nor rejected, existing in a state of geometric uncertainty.

Finally, the verdict came: provisional approval. K.'s shape was permitted, but subject to review. Any deviation would trigger reevaluation.

K. went home with his provisionally approved form. He was allowed to be himself, conditionally.

The condition would never lift. The review would never end. His shape was his own, but only as long as someone else continued to agree.

World 274

The correction was coming, and K. was scheduled for adjustment, and he didn't know what needed correcting.

"Your correction appointment is at 3 PM," the notification said. "Please report to Correction Center 7."

K. reported. He waited in a room with others awaiting correction. No one knew what would be corrected.

"What are you here for?" K. asked the person next to him.

"I don't know. The notification doesn't specify."

K. entered the correction chamber. The corrector reviewed his file.

"You have a deviation in sector 47," the corrector said. "We're going to fix it."

"What's sector 47?"

"That's not relevant. The deviation exists. The correction will address it."

K. underwent correction. Something changed—he felt it shift, adjust, realign. When it was over, he felt different, but couldn't identify how.

"What was corrected?" K. asked.

"Sector 47 is now within parameters. That's all that matters."

K. went home, corrected. Whatever had been wrong was now right. Whatever had deviated was now aligned.

He would never know what had changed. He would only know that he was, somehow, more correct than before.

World 275

The scheduling was for dreams, and K.'s sleep was being organized, and the schedule would determine when and what he dreamed.

"Your dream schedule has been set," the scheduler said. "Monday: processing dreams. Wednesday: consolidation dreams. Friday: creative dreams."

K. looked at the schedule. His nights were divided, categorized, assigned specific nocturnal functions.

"What about spontaneous dreams?" K. asked.

"Not scheduled. Spontaneous content is inefficient. The schedule ensures optimal dream function."

K. slept his scheduled sleep. Monday nights, his dreams processed the week's emotions. Wednesday nights, they consolidated memories. Friday nights, they generated creative solutions.

The dreams were productive. They accomplished their assigned purposes.

But they no longer surprised him. There were no Tuesday dreams, no Thursday mysteries, no weekend adventures of the unconscious mind.

His sleep was organized. His nights were efficient. His dreams served their functions.

And somewhere, beneath the schedule, the spontaneous dreamer that K. had once been waited—waited for an unscheduled night, an unplanned dream, a moment when sleep might still mean discovery.