I was to travel to the moon. The arrangements had been made; I was a member of an astronaut crew. I worried about the takeoff, the G force. Fuck it, others had survived and I would too. What provisions are made for pissing and shitting? A system of tubes I guess. We’re all in the same boat. I was going to the moon! Zero gravity in the craft. The dutiful floating about, maybe drink a bubble or two. But on the surface there’d be enough to stand on the chalky, silty surface. I’d be on the fucking moon. I felt a stab of terror. On the moon! A big cold rock in the bleak black of space. To get back home I’d have to trust the machine, this precious tangle of rods and bolts devised by hapless man.

My dream became lucid. I was in a room full of people, maybe a party. I didn’t recognize any. I thought: this is a dream, and since I can control my dream once I know it’s a dream, what should I do? I decided to try to find my mother’s face in the faces of the strangers. She did not appear. One person slumped against a wall and slid down, sitting on the floor with their head down.

It’s the aftermath of “Apocalypse Now.” Captain Willard is back stateside and the higher ups are giving him the hero treatment: your country thanks you for what you’ve done, earnest and firm handshakes. Yet he is troubled, even angry. And the brass is on to it. He’s giving vibes he might break down, kill some people—or even worse, tell his story. He never had anything to lose, you know? Heck, that’s why he was chosen in the first place. There’s whispers of what to do. Get rid of him? Take him out before he becomes a problem? Or flatter and coddle him into complacency? This sequel is called “Contingency Plan.”