When I try to trace back my fascination with dreams, a certain memory pops into my head. I was nine years old, sitting in the kitchen of my childhood home in Oshawa, Ontario. My feet snaked around the legs of a creaky wooden chair. My parents hadn’t renovated the kitchen yet, so I was surrounded by faded blue-flowered wallpaper. I pulled my long hair off my face and tilted my head back. Our German shepherds, Pepper and Spice, circled the room, then paused to take a closer look. My father wrestled with a tangle of colourful wires and a pot of sticky white paste. He consulted an official-...