Every single day, I have the same nightmare. And every single day, I make a break to my Messenger shop to get rid of it. Apparently, it's a nightmare so horrifying I can't help but sell it and, in turn, forget it. Do I know what the nightmare is? No. Does my dream dealer know? Absolutely. I at least know I'm valid in my fear since he keeps buying it. "Top tier torture," he says. Torment like mine boosts him in the Messenger market. It's a win-win situation. I get a nightmare, sell it, buy a cheap dream back and sleep "fine" for a night. An excruciating, yet occasionally peaceful, cycle. But something has been breaking that cycle, and not just the hiked up dream prices. I can't sleep anymore. I find myself terrified to go to sleep, my brain refusing to let me experience my nightmare. Less nightmares means less money means less food and less dreams. The two things I'm surviving on. I'm managing, for now. 
Tonight is like any other, rainy and dark despite the glaring neon signs illuminating the Dream Market. I find myself running, swerving around other patrons while getting my pants wet from the puddles littering the uneven ground. I make quick work of it, entering the bright teal Messenger shop, yanking my Index Card out of the slot in my neck, and placing it firmly into the Reader on the counter. Mantle turns around and leans tiredly over my Card, staring straight into my eyes. 
"Listen kid," he starts. I can feel one of his lectures coming on so I chose to (poorly) deflect. 
"Veil," I correct. 
"What?" 
"It's Veil, my name." Well worded and totally not grammatically incorrect. 
"Right, Veil. How many times do I have to tell you? There's a dream shortage, I can't sell to you anymore. I need to save for repeat customers I don't give a discount to. You keep costin' me." 
"Can you buy?" He rolls his eyes at that. I begin to get nervous. I'm willing to start selling for free; it's my only source of income but I'm sure I can figure something out. Anything to forget what happened, and by extension forget everything from the past. "Please," I whisper, just loud enough for him to hear. It comes out desperate, my stare fixated on his wavering expression. 
"Fine," he huffs and brings the reader to the crate dedicated to me, placing yet another cartridge onto the unusually increasing pile. In one move he slides my Index Card back towards me. "But I'm not selling, and I'm not paying either." 
Somehow, I expected this, "I have no other source of Credits." 
"Not my problem kid."  
My hands start to fidget, "Is there any other way to continue this?" My tone shifts. I'm desperate now. He pauses and pushes his lip out with his tongue; it means he's thinking. 
"Maybe." Another pause, "But it depends on how far you're willing to go." He makes it sound more threatening than he intends (I think). 
I'm at the end of my rope, so I just stare at him. It's dumb to suggest I have a limit. 
"You're right, that was stupid to say." Maybe I've been spending too much time with this old man. "Listen. You're skilled, you have good instincts, and you've got nightmares that could stun an elephant, so let me propose this. Work for me. Let me give you a real job, because I know there's more to you than the memories you try so hard to escape." 
For a second it scares me, not the job, but the sincerity of a Messenger such as Mantle. But I accept. What choice do I have anyway?