Yume: The bakery was completely remodeled. The kitchen and the front store were joined into one massive room that stretched out in all directions on a checkerboard tile of white-and-black. I stood at a white counter, dutifully holding a pair of silver tongs, cheerful despite the fact that a red sky with purple clouds swirled overhead – the walls had disappeared. My hair is tied back with a scarf as I stand in my red apron, cheerfully asking, "How may I help you today?" But no one walks in or by as I stand, alone, merely a doll in a miniature display. From above the clouds, blue eyes stare down.

When I got home today, I thought someone else was here, too. Out of the corner of my eye I caught the flicker of a tall person stepping out of the downstairs bathroom and turning the corner into my father's office. But when I went into the room no-one was there. The person wore a white collared shirt – it was probably just an after-image of my dad. I see those a lot when I drag my fingers up and down the walls of our house. We've lived there so long that my family's patterns and habits have soaked into the furniture and the foundation. When I'm in a particular frame of mind – the semi-alert balance between daydreaming and daywalking – I'll pick up the old sounds or ghostly flashes that routine have bored into the wallpaper and the carpets. There's a technical word for this, but I don't quite recall it. Psychometry. I think that's it.

What am I doing hanging round? I should be on that train and gone. I should be riding on that train to San Antonio. What am I doing hanging around?

Ten days 'til I make the decision. Morals suck.