I was at a house party that lasted days. At one point Madonna arrived. She walked in with a bit of a smile saying, “Yeah, I’m Madonna.” She wore her hair short and dark. I was at a soccer stadium, watching a World Cup final between Holland and France. Holland went up 2-0 and then France scored on a weird, close-range shot that dribbled past the keeper. I woke up very late in my dream, thinking it was past noon, relieved it was only 11:25, but still dazed and a little bit ashamed.

I was a freshman at Yale, arriving on campus, figuring out where my room was. Everyone gearing up for the start, forming their cliques, deciding where and when to get wasted. My roommate was an elusive, shadowy figure. I wasn’t sure when we’d meet. There was an orientation desk in the dorm and the woman asked me for my phone number. I had trouble remembering it, but I gave her my actual current phone number. I told her to dial it just to be sure. My phone in my bag buzzed when she did and I said, “That’s it!”

There was a long way to go to the gig. We stopped along the way at someone’s parents’ house. Not a band member’s parents. It was Sara’s cousin’s parents, except the father had divorced the mother and now lived with a younger woman who greeted us and invited us in. We’d be spending the night and making ourselves at home, but really tiptoeing around self-consciously, trying not to inconvenience or intrude. It was a beautiful, modern home set in the woods. Jackie was there, but was a younger version of herself, rolling around in the shag carpeting of the living room.