At a bar with P. C. In reply to something he said, I remarked that I was just another white guy in a blue shirt. There were these other guys at our table and I said, “I guess we’re all just white guys in blue shirts,” and one of them called me an idiot because his shirt was more of a green-blue. P. C. added up the tab, which was a very complex sort of ledger, with rows indicating numbers of each drink ordered. He did the math quickly, and in the dream it occurred to me that he used to struggle with math. “Yeah, that was because of the plague,” he said. “The bubonic plague. But I’m better now.” The guys at our table were bearded hipsters, and they were ironically eating classic Drake’s Cakes—Funny Bones, I think. They lived in the renovated top floor of a nearby building, the rest of which was gutted, with empty windows. We could see it right across the street from the bar. P. C. got right near me and I thought I’d make a joke: “I’m afraid you can hear the voices inside my head,” I said, then covered my mouth coyly, like I was really shy about what those voices might be saying. The table erupted in laughter.