In my dream he is pushing about in a faded apron and with two stubby pigtails in his hair so I make him sing a bit of “The Worst Pies in London”.

In my dream she says “Be careful! The Academy knows what you were doing with the Peggl”, alluding to a scrawled word game. Annoyed, I say “It was my birthday. We were messing around!”. It’s only later that I wish that I had asked how they knew.

In my dream we are all in on it. Everyone is going to read something at the event, but only a few of us are going off to hide the body. The seafood buffet is crammed with roe, shellfish, and greasy filets piled above head height and doused in garish cream sauces. There’s barely room to walk and a fight is breaking out.

In my dream we all hunt each outer like this: identify suitable prey, present hunter ID card and attack with bladed weapons. My father is close to being caught and I search for a hiding place: out the back door, through the arching reeds and ultimately on the neighbor’s cluttered roof. I inject my insulin.

In my dream the shell of the turtkeychain flips open and a small pencil sharpener slots into the revealed cavity. Is it on the carpeted floor of the shop like a patient sub.

In my dream I walk through the Bronx and down into Manhattan, past stone bridges where an older woman is selling used clothes and luggage , past a nighttime neighborhood where the men are amputees asleep in the corners of subway entrances. I am followed, mocked and threatened. Something in the air smells delicious.

In my dream two guys take up so much time with their petty fight that the rest of us lose the chance for the games that we had borrowed from the library so we just go home.