With less than a week before our scheduled departure, my life seemed to be going crazy. I hadn’t had another “dream” since the last one. I was still trying to figure out what it meant and had come to the conclusion that until I did so, I would not be going back, at least not in that manner. I spent several hours thinking about what I should, whether or not I should talk about it, and if I did, who I could trust with such sensitive information.
Ultimately, I had decided upon my best friend, Francine, who was on the fast track to working her way to the top of the NYPD. At the time, she was a detective on the Major Cases Squad, which was mostly high profile murders; she loved that sort of thing.
Always the good friend, she picked up on the first ring. I explained to her that I had something very important to talk to her about and that it couldn’t wait any longer. I sounded shaky. I know I did. My uneasiness evoked alarm, and I could tell I had scared her. She said she would be over right away, and I didn’t doubt that. Francine lived a stone’s throw away: just a few blocks over on 172nd St.
I decided to pick up some of my mess before she got there. I had papers everywhere: papers about dreams, dream traveling, etc. I didn’t want her to freak out as soon as she walked in the door. Even though I was sure she’d freak out at some point. I was stacking and folding papers quick as lightning, trying to shove them under things and in drawers, which is very hard to do in a small apartment I might add. I was so busy that I barely heard the knock on the door.