He could see the afternoon sun hanging hazily in the sky as he walked in the streets of Station Square. He was carrying a white backpack, filled with records and information about some of the patients' dreams he analyzed. He thought he would so some work while he ate, with his chili dog of course away from the papers (he has gotten in trouble with Gerald before about chili stains on the research).

He realized when he entered the patient's dreams he was fast. Faster than the speed of light. But in reality, he ran like the average human. He was walking uphill in the city streets, holding onto a bike's handlebars with both hands. His bike looked slightly old, as if he received it in the 80's. It was a mountain bike called the Ram S7, which was probably the cheapest mountain bike there was. The pelts in the handlebars looked dirty and dusty, and there were brown spots of rust in the bike's wheels. There were some other children or teens he would run into the streets, saying why he was riding that "piece of crap" (or "shit" or "rusty old thing"), but he plainly ignored them as they kept pestering him with their questions. He actually thought it was a good thing sometimes that he had an old bike. When he was hanging out in the rough side of the streets, thieves never thought of to steal his. They probably would think when they saw him in the street: That hedgehog, with that piece of shit? He probably doesn't have shit in his bank account. Don't bother with him.

He didn't care that his bike was rusty and old. It was the cheapest he could afford, some man selling it to him for $20. As long as it could take him places faster than walking, it was all he needed. He didn't need a fancy bike, and he wasn't sure if he could afford a car right now. He was saving up to get a moped, something he always wanted when he saw them in the stores and when he began to work for Gerald. He was still a hundred dollars away, and unfortunately he had bills to pay. He sighed, followed by a rumble in the clouds in the distance. He looked up, seeing that they were a smoky dark gray, and he knew these clouds weren't from the result of being near a factory.

As soon as he got up the hill, a few raindrops scattered on the sidewalk like spotted gray paint, he hopped on his bike, and rode on.

His fur was soaking as he got to the restaurant, matted and dirty. He took his bike to the rack but didn't bother locking it to the bars. No one was going to steal it.

He was freezing as he sat on the table's round, black leather chair, the restaurant still having a hint of the air conditioner on, chilling him through his dank fur and into his skin. The local news was on in the corner of the bars, and he could actually hear it through the people chattering, the plates and silverware clanking, and the rain and thunder pattering and growling outside. The weatherman was showing everyone who watched a detailed map of Station Square, with many rainclouds covering his area. He said it was going to be a very wet weekend, with thunderstorms. Great.

The waitress approached him, commenting on his dampness and how a "poor lil' ole creature like him shouldn't be out in the cold rain". He ordered his usual, Coke with a chili dog, maybe an apple pie to go with it. He thought this place had the best apple pies.

As she took his menu and told the cooks his order and fetching a Coke from the soda machine, he saw on the news that there was a burning building, black smoke rising from the center. He knew that this was serious, as the bartender on the other side turned the volume up, the reporter literally shouting her report.

"On 10 AM today, a series of bombs were set off in the Union Square Bank building. As you can see here…" The camera panned to the front of the building, revealing a symbol. It was a circle, with a mustached man with round glasses grinning like the Cheshire cat. For some reason, looking at this symbol on the front of the bank made him feel uneasy. "…the bombs were set off to make this symbol, which police recognize is the symbol of the underground terrorist organization that Station Square has been trying to stop, called The Eggmen. When police analyzed the scene, they saw one working computer in the Union Square office, revealing a cryptic message. We are sure this is the work of the organization's leader, Dr. Eggman, as the computer quotes the popular Beatles song, "I Am the Walrus". It says "I am the Eggman, they are the eggmen. I am the Walrus, goo goo g'joob." Police are using whatever evidence they can find to reveal the identity of Dr. Eggman and bring him to justice. Although no deaths have been reported of the incident, the bank's CEO is in critical condition and is in the intensive care unit of Station Square Memorial Hospital. This is Nicole Halo, reporting."

What a cocky bastard, Sonic thought. Taunting the police like that. All year there were strings of bombings and CEOs and people seriously injured, even killed by the organization The Eggmen. The police barely knew anything about them. All they knew of, other than the taunting messages quoting "I Am the Walrus", the leader called himself Dr. Eggman and they knew there were followers that believed in his ramblings about the downfall of capitalism and the greedy rich. Sonic didn't really understand any of that, as he propped one hand on his cheek, looking bored, as he swirled around the ice in the Coke the waitress brought him. He hated waiting for his food.

He thought of never minding what happened and work on his assessments of the dreams he entered. He opened his white backpack, taking out a black notebook that he wrote down about the patient's dreams, with his shoddy and childish scrawl he dared called his handwriting. He flipped open the first page, reading it.

PATIENT NAME: MARIANNE THOMPSON

SEX: F

AGE: 19

IN HER DREAM, SHE WAS IN A CHURCH, WITH SHADOWS ALL AROUND HER. THESE SHADOWS GREW RED EYES AND BEGAN TO SURROUND HER. IT WAS THEN THAT SHE FELT THEM GROPING HER AND SHE BEGAN TO SCREAM. THIS DREAM TELLS ME SHE IS STILL TRAUAMATIZED BY THE PASTOR OF HER CHURCH SHE TRUSTED MOLESTING HER WHEN SHE WAS A CHILD. NEEDS EXTENDSIVE THERAPY WITH DR. MORGAN AND MAYBE START HER ON ANTI-ANCIETY MEDICINE

He misspelled "anxiety" again, and noticed he also misspelled "traumatized" and "extensive". After checking with his electronic dictionary, he crossed them out and put the correct spellings. He still had to try to be a professional, after all. He knew working on these files in the public wasn't professional either, but he wanted to get more of his analysis down as soon as possible so he could sleep for maybe more than four hours. It wasn't like anyone was going to look, and the waitress actually knew him enough that she knew she wasn't allowed to peek at his records. "Confidential," he would say.

He wrote down what he thought when he experienced that dream, sloppily slashing his paper with marks.

MARIANNE BELIEVES SHE NEEDS TO FORGIVE EVERYONE. SHE IS CONFUSED ABOUT FORGIVING HER PASTOR, BUT THIS SHOULDN'T BE THE CASE. SHE NEEDS TO LEARN THAT NOT FORGIVING SOMEONE IS THE RIGHT THING TO DO IN SOME CASES SUCH AS THESE.

It was then that his waitress came back, with a chili dog and a small plate with a slice of apple pie, his chili dog drizzled with cheese and his pie with whipped topping and cinnamon sprinkled on it, like he asked. He put away his work and began eating, his skin not feeling so cold anymore as both of his food was piping hot. He burnt his tongue a little on the pie, but he didn't mind too much. It was damn good apple pie.

He stared outside the window, noticing the rain turned from a torrential downpour to a drizzle. Hopefully it wasn't going to be too cold and wet when he would ride to his apartment.

It was 1:32 PM when he arrived at his room in the apartment flat. Of course, he took the stairs. The elevator was too damn slow for him.

He knifed the doorknob's lock with his key, turned it, and went inside. He noticed his apartment was a mess again. His kitchen sink was still full of dishes he didn't wash, stained with red tomato paste from the spaghetti he ate the other night, along with some bowls he used to eat ramen with. There was also his bed, the sheets mangled with him tossing and turning, and his computer area where he did yet more studies and records, the desk piled with folders and papers, along with some on the floor. There were also some posters on the wall of his favorite bands, AC/DC, The E-Street Band, and Jimi Hendrix, along with a cork board with sticky notes and papers, most of them from the Institute.

He sighed, and picked up his corded phone on the small table near his bed. He had to make a phone call to someone. It was something he didn't want to do, but felt like he had to, since he promised.

He twirled his finger on the cord's curl, as the other line picked up. The voice was high-pitched and seemed to belong to a teenage girl. "Hello?"

"Hi Amy," he said, as if disappointed.

"Oh, hi Sonic, my sweetie!" she chirped happily. "Are you on your break, because you know, you promised to take me to the carnival!"

"Yeah, I know. Hey, listen, I can't be out there for that long. It's important that I have to go back to work at 3. We can only hang out for an hour."

"That's fine, Sonic! Just as long as you're going to be with me! So, you never told me where you work at. What do you do all day?"

He felt like he couldn't tell her what he actually did most of the day. He felt like she was going to pester him about his study and work, maybe even asking him constantly if she had a disorder such as ADD. He shuddered a little at the thought.

"Uh…" He thought of a lie at the top of his head. "I work at the zoo. Tough hours, you know."

"The zoo? Hey, maybe we can go there too sometime! Maybe we'll get an employee discount!"

"Yeah. Sure. Maybe. Say, I need to get ready, so I'll see you at 1:50. Be ready."

"I'm already ready, you silly!" He shuddered again. "I'll see you then! Bye!"

"Yeah. Bye." He hung up the phone, looking at the clock in the far corners of his room. It was 1:40. He only had five minutes to get ready, and he had to ride his bike to the carnival, which would also take him another five minutes. He thought he would take a quick rinse in the shower then dry up and leave. Amy hated it every time he was a little late.

As he dried his face with a towel, he looked back at his computer desk. There was him, with Dr. Gerald, in front of the Institute with its poppies, their hands on their shoulders, smiling.

He loved his job. He didn't care he wasn't paid enough, or that he dealt with serious subjects, or he thought he wasn't professional enough. He liked helping people alongside Dr. Gerald. Gerald told him he needed Sonic because he was very much like Freud's chow chow, Jo-Fi. He always calmed down the patients that entered his office and in the research room, infecting them with his positive energy. But he wasn't always like this. He remembered when he was 13, he was miserable. And he wanted to help his patients realize the brighter things in life. Life was too short to worry about how other people perceived of you or you didn't got the perfect score on your essay. You only had one chance to live. You had to enjoy it while it lasted, and you weren't sure if the next day would be your last. It could happen.

And he felt like if Gerald didn't help him when he was that miserable 13-year old hedgehog, he could've very well died, not enjoying what life had to offer him.

He looked at the window. The rain stopped. The carnival would keep going unless it rained again like when he stopped by his restaurant. He hoped at least it wouldn't rain enough to ruin Amy's day.