Last night the surgeon wanted more red, and I gave him a sunset

I'm standing in a gallery showing all my illustrations, and the surgeon from last week walks up to the one I'm most proud of — a clean cross-section of the thigh — and he just says 'more red.' So I paint the whole thing like a thunderstorm sky, all bruised and glowing, and he nods like it's the most obvious thing in the world. Woke up half-convinced I'd solved a problem that doesn't exist.