“You slept through breakfast,” Simon says, “but it was awful.”
“Snow was very excited about continental breakfast,” Baz says.
“It’s not what you think.” Simon frowns. It’s not French stuff. It’s just really sad pastries and bad tea. Oh and you missed Baz eating a squirrel.”
“I didn’t eat the squirrel.”
“Oh, sorry, you drank it, and threw its little squirrel body in the ditch.”
Here’s the thing with dreams – and I’m talking about the kind you have when you sleep, not the kind where you’re finally learning to surf when you’re fifty: they’re carefully tailored to the only audience who will ever see them, which is you. So I’m not big on telling people about my dreams for that reason.
That said, there’s this recurring dream I have. It comes around every couple of months or so, but I wish it were more often because it’s awesome, and when I wake up from it, I lie there for a few moments wishing I could reenter it. In this dream, I’m at a familiar place. Often it’s my grandma’s house.