Somehow I was contemplating a career as a racecar driver. I was my real age or close to it—too old—but I thought that if I could borrow some money from my dad I might make a go of it. I had to get into shape, I realized. That would be tough. But not impossible. I’d eat right, train. I’d also have to get out on the track. I’d have to learn how to go flat out everywhere you were supposed to go flat out. Like on the Mulsanne Straight. I’d have to be brave. But I thought there was no reason I couldn’t do it.

We were in a building where Jackie was going to summer camp, probably a big school, with a gym. There was a sign advertising one of the activities: The Circus of the Hope and the Hix and the Dry Flour. “Oh, that kind of flour,” I thought to myself. In the dream I must have thought I’d heard it before and assumed “flower.” Some time after I woke up it occurred to me that Hope Hicks is an actual person, a Trump aide—his PR person, in fact.