In my dream we’re clustered around the restaurant waiting for the final word on whether or not her son has survived the stroke he had on set.

In my dream the cascade is light but holds a happy dog.

In my dream I open the folder. Inside are three blue silk flowers, sent by the Harris campaign. In my hand, a white flower from Biden. Kamala Harris is two seats over in the thrumming auditorium so I try to tell her that people support her because she isn’t Biden and she shouldn’t let the white flower be included in the folder.

In my dream we need to get off the ship, so we grab the chickens and stuff them through the slats in the crate. The rest of the bag is filled with rolls of black plastic, which doesn’t help, so  I yank them out and stash them up at the front of the lecture room. Johnny Chiodini and I mug at each other and talk about used work gear.

In my dream we are glad to be in the middle of the three part challenge: we bustle around the room where the golden wooden pyramids lie open.

In my dream I end up in the townhouse asking if I’m really supposed to add my strongest family member as security. It’s night and the celluloid tiles are red and yellow, stacked on the counter.

In my dream I have to thwart the  siblings who have decided to kill off the rest of their family, so we scramble through the hydroponics at the mall, pushing at each other. The water is near our ankles.

In my dream the black tendrils of their headdress fly open.

In my dream  a small group turns away.

In my dream we cross the barriers into the plaza. The carbonation in the kombucha pushes the glass stopper out of the bottle. I’m trying to find a rubber stopper.

In my dream those bulbous new white SUVs are in the gas station lot. Just as I try to get the doors closed and everything rounded up in our house, a feral cat slips in, dark and tagged, so now I’m chasing it slowly and trying to coax it into a blanket. I don’t want to touch it.