I got a call at work that my car was ready, and I said I'd be there immediately. I rushed over to a gas station/mechanic where I was to pick up the car. It wasn't actually a car, but a smallish van--silver, sort of shaped like a station wagon, long. It appeared to have a flat tire on the front left side, but I decided it must just be because the car was parked too close to the curb, and the tire was sort of mashed.

I got in the car to drive it back to my office, and it just felt wrong. The steering wheel was too big, and there were no windows in the back, and I had to wear a big, cumbersome helmet in order to drive.

I really missed my little black car, and I decided to call Bob to ask him if it was too late, if I could get the black car back. I picked up the cell phone and dialed his number, but with the helmet on, I couldn't get the phone close enough to my ear. So, frustrated, I turned the phone off and drove to work, proceeding to get lost in the process.

I couldn't find the right building. I kept thinking that if I just sort of stopped thinking about it, just drove on instinct, that I'd find it, but I kept driving into the wrong parking lots and not getting to the right place.

I was sitting on the toilet in a bathroom in a London hotel room, looking at my robe hanging on a hook on the back of the door, and hoping that I would remember to pack it when I left, but sure that I would probably forget. The robe was white with a pattern of small pink rosebuds and green leaves.

I was thinking about how I should start writing a book, that that hard part was just getting started, if I would just start it, that maybe I could finish it.

And I sat there and started thinking about it, and thought to myself that it would start, "I was sitting in the bathtub in a hotel room in London [I thought that sounded better than saying I was sitting on the toilet.], looking at my bathrobe hanging on the back of the door, and thinking that I would probably forget it when it came time to check out."

As I was driving to work, I passed Brush Creek, and saw a man with a shotgun who appeared to be stalking a big cat--a big black cat, possibly a panther. I called M on my cell phone and told him about it, and as I was driving past, I saw another cat, this one appearing to be a wild cat of some kind.

There might have even been a third cat. I couldn't imagine where they had come from, and hoped that they would be able to be captured without being killed.

Then I was inside somewhere, and the two cats were talking through a doorway with me, one on either side. I had my hands on their heads, stroking them, and thinking, "Please don't let them eat me."

Dinah and Pyewacket were outside sitting in chairs eating strawberries from a bowl. They picked them up in their paws one by one, and ate them. One of them (I don't remember which one) held the bowl out to me, offering me some, but I declined.

I had a psychiatrist, an older woman, and I visited her for my regular appointment. It seemed that she cut it short, and as I was leaving, the receptionist handed me my records and asked me to sign them. I said I'd like to read them first, that I would take them into the sitting area and read them, and I would bring them back.

I started reading them with the most recent visit, and the psychiatrist had noted that she believed she smelled alcohol on my breath today and would therefore not be seeing me again, since this was the second time.

I was angry, since I hadn't had anything to drink and couldn't imagine why she thought I had. I took the chart back to the window, and the psychiatrist was standing behind the receptionist. I said that I would be willing to have a blood test to prove that I hadn't been drinking, and she said, oh, well, we wouldn't be able to do that until this afternoon.

I said, so that's it, then? I just have to find someone else? And she turned away. I called after her, "Well, can I at least have a copy of my chart?" but she didn't answer me.

I was a member of an anti-drug division of a police force. We received information that a drug dealer was operating out of a house at 540 Main Street, and we drove there to see what was going on.

I was sitting in the back seat, passenger (right) side, and I watched the house numbers as we drove along. I saw 440, and thought for a moment that was where we were going to stop, then remembered it was 540.

We reached the house, which was a nice house that was reached by climbing stone steps set into a short hillside. There were white iron railings alongside the steps. One of our group, Tracy (known as Diva), said she was going to stay in the car to guard it, and she sat in the backseat, driver's (left) side, and waited.

When we got up to the house, one of the other detectives let himself, and us, in, and I didn't think we should just let ourselves into someone else's home, but he said that by selling drugs, the drug dealer had caused himself to not have the same rights to privacy as other people.

Nothing was going on in the house, no one was there, we couldn't tell whether they had moved on or not, but it appeared that they probably had. There was a folded-up newspaper on the dining room table. I picked it up--it was the edition with a story about us, about one of our group who had been killed.

Someone (Julia?) asked me what it was, and I said, "It's the story about Kurt."

Just then, the drug dealer came into the house, and told us he had captured Diva. He said, "You know how high maintenance Diva is when she's alive, you'd better do what I say,"

I couldn't quite figure out what that meant, but it seemed to mean that he would kill her because she was too much trouble, or perhaps that if she didn't get certain things because we hesitated and took too long, she'd be ill or maybe just unhappy.

Bob and I were going on our annual trip to Florida with his parents, and I should have been packing, but I took a nap instead. I woke up, and found that Bob had done his own packing.

I threw some things in a suitcase for myself, but had no idea whether I'd gotten the things I'd really needed, or whether I had enough clothes. I knew that I didn't have enough socks, but they were dirty, and I didn't have time to do laundry. I figured I could always buy some if I needed to.

I asked Bob if he had found everything he needed, and he said he thought he had, but I worried about that, too.

We got to the airport, and Bob dropped me off, then went to park the car. While I was wandering around the airport, I realized that I'd forgotten to bring the tickets. I panicked, and started for the airport exit. I thought I had time to go home and get the tickets, so I started for the parking lot, then realized I had no idea where the car was.

I started thinking about whether I should just go ahead and buy new tickets; it seemed like a ridiculous extravagance, but I couldn't think of anything else to do.

Then I remembered that Bob's parents would be coming to meet us, and I thought about calling them and asking them to go to the house and get the tickets (they had a key to the house), but I had no idea where the tickets were. I thought and thought, and couldn't picture them at all. And in any event, I didn't have my cell phone, and didn't know their number, and I would have to find a pay phone and hope that they hadn't left yet.