It wasn't magic, the dreams. It was science. Eames was hazy on the details, darling, he had a grip on the precise concoction that worked in a pinch because it was always an idea to know how to get yourself under and out again without relying on another chemist being present. He didn't know why you could manipulate unconsciousness like cotton candy, he just knew you could and it didn't make you Superman or Magic Meg. The resignation in Jeremiah's voice was a note or two different from Eames' own, but he understood the sentiment.
"Werewolves," Eames confirmed as blithely as if he were referring to Christmas trees. Irony was six foot two and a prop forward's body crammed into superfine red cashmere. He knew irony well enough, darling.
"Not so very long," Eames sounded thoughtful. "The wolves were before FEMA, darling. Wolves don't like FEMA, or at least I don't think they like much that involves itself where wolves reside."