Alan and Bette are siblings, 15 months apart, living just blocks from Coney Island Amusement Park.  A clown nightmare they both experience as small children— on the same night—surfaces when I interview Bette in hospice. She’s alone just with me and with her closest and oldest childhood friend. Though she’s kept her promise to Alan to never tell another living soul about what happened, she shares it now, maybe because she knows, deep down, that Alan will never visit.  (More than once he’s told her he does not want to watch her die.) And maybe subconsciously, this is the way to invite Alan to connect with her before she leaves this earth. After Bette dies, we contact Alan and gingerly ask only if he’d like to hear more about the end of life conversation I had with Bette.  He does, and that’s when he begins to recount his own version of the clown nightmare, in minute detail. When he’s done, he asks if it’s possible to create a picture of the very moment the clown peers into the windows where they were sleeping.  This is the essence of dreamscaping.  Alan gets excited about historical accuracy, and tracks down a photograph of a tenement similar to where he lived, above his grandfather’s butcher shop.  In the dreamscape, we simply change the name of the butcher shop to “Kinberg” (his grandfather’s surname).  As for the clown portion, instead of showing each child’s POV, we look for the point of commonality in the siblings’ stories.  This becomes the truly terrifying moment when the clown arrives at their address, holding a photograph of Alan and Bette so he can ID them. And yet Alan has never sounded better; he is himself again ….