3,514. That's the number of patients admitted to Brockton Bay Medical Center in 2008. In 2009, that number had almost quadrupled. By 2011, Brockton Bay had become a hotbed for medical tourism, with tens of thousands visiting the small New Hampshire city hoping for a miracle. The rapid growth could be traced back to the day Amy Dallon triggered.

Every day, Amy toured the hospitals and clinics of Brockton Bay, trying to hold back the seemingly endless horde of sick and injured. In between her volunteer hours and school, she had barely enough time to feel the crippling guilt over how few hours she actually worked. Luckily, she was a skilled multitasker.

Today, after nearly two years of making herself sick through overwork, guilt, and depression, Amy Dallon was just tired. So why the fuck couldn't she get to sleep? She had an appointment with the Sandman, damn it. She had done her part by lying down and closing her eyes. Why wasn't he doing his?

She was in her secret room. Well, it was less secret room, and more disused study room in a basement of the Brockton Bay Public Library, but she had never seen anybody else on the floor, let alone in the room, so that was enough. She came here whenever she was too tired to properly function and didn't have the energy to deal with Carol.

The room had an overstuffed couch. She had no idea why it was down here, but she certainly wasn't going to complain. That couch had been a good friend to her, offering a judgment free resting place on more occasions than she cared to remember. Today, however, not even that was enough to deliver her into the Land of Nod.

As she tried to make herself sleep through sheer force of will, Amy was struck by a brilliant idea. It could have been her sleep-deprivation talking, but right now, "brilliant" seemed the perfect adjective. If counting imaginary sheep were supposed to cure insomnia, then drawing sheep would be like flooding her body with melatonin. She dragged herself to the whiteboard on the opposite wall and, using the markers provided, drew a sheep jumping a fence, followed by a line of sheep waiting their turn. At least, that's what she attempted to draw. Now that she had returned to her vantage point on the couch, it looked more like a series of clouds with sticks attached. Oh, well. She did the best she could.

Ten minutes later, and no less awake than before, Amy reconsidered her plan. She was still utterly convinced of its merits. No, she had been let down by the tools provided by the Brockton Bay Public Library. The markers were probably purchased by some faceless bureaucrat during the 80s. The economy had taken a downturn since then, and extravagances like markers had probably fallen by the wayside. They had been sitting in here for decades, slowing being drained of their potency. Now, they lacked even the ability to put an exhausted 17-year-old to sleep. If that didn't tell you all you needed to know about Brockton Bay, she didn't know what would. Amy's last thoughts before her body finally listened to her demands were of a warehouse filled with countless rows of markers.

###

Amy was flabbergasted. On the whiteboard in her secret room, somebody had drawn a mighty dragon swooping in, its claws wrapped around the sheep-cloud mid-leap.

Two things were immediately obvious: one, her secret room was significantly less secret than previous reports had indicated, and two, the intruder was clearly challenging her. Coming into her secret room—she should probably think of a new name—and getting their dragon to steal her sheep-cloud? Countries had gone to war for less.

She pulled out her newly purchased marker and waved it around like a sword. She imagined herself as a gallant knight—an actual one, not some cheap tin knockoff who probably kidnapped the beautiful princess—fighting the fierce dragon. She drew the scene as she imagined it: she and her noble steed as they charged the beast, prepared to die to protect all that was good and decent in the world, with goodness and decency being represented by her sheep-cloud.

When she came in the next day and saw that the dragon and sheep-clouds had been erased and a windmill drawn in their stead, she didn't know to think. Instead of bothering to try—this was, after all, supposed to be her secret naptime room, not a competitive drawing space—Amy wrote "windmill?" on the whiteboard.

She returned every day and found no change to the whiteboard. After three days, she was beginning to suspect that whoever had been leaving these drawings for her had moved on. Then, on the fourth day, she received a reply: an arrow pointing down. Beneath the whiteboard was a copy of Don Quixote. She took the book to the couch and set forth on a journey to 17th Century Spain.

When she finally managed to drag herself away from the room, she left another message for her mysterious companion: "Is this your way of telling me you like my ass?"