...tile repair. A single shaft of light from the barely-cracked bedroom door of my childhood falling across my burning eyes making me cry because my classmates are making fun of me but I don’t know why.
    The light is what woke me from the dreams, not from the bedroom door in a house hundreds of miles and a thousand lifetimes away, but from the open refrigerator, where my visitor was standing, leaning in to inspect what was available, running a finger across the label of a jar of McClure’s pickles, empty, just brine and some seeds forming the sea bed.
    When I sat up, the door was closed and nobody was there. Just me and my churning stomach. Dream or no dream, it was just as well that she didn’t stick around: this time she was where the gun was. I don’t remember if I reloaded it. I don’t think it matters....