I woke on the train.
Upper berth, Metra, moving through some anonymous near-north neighborhood. The conductor had barked, “Tickets.” At first, I panicked because I didn’t have a ticket. But, oh yeah, we’re using the Ventra app now. I fumbled with my phone while a young man in the aisle watched, shaking his head. He grabbed the phone to show me how it’s done. Rude, but people do that in dreams.
I woke again.
I was in a hammock, on a ridge, on the Appalachian Trail. It had to be an hour before daybreak. There was a slow rain tapping on the canopy I had strung above me as it darkened the night before. Around the corners of the canopy, I could see the gun-metal blue of the night sky through the black veil of mountain trees. The hoot owl had gone quiet, no crickets, just rain. I fumbled with my phone, barely enough power to tell me the time. Rob would be awake soon. I pulled on my shoes, grabbed the flashlight, and began looking for kindling dry enough to start a fire.
M. T.
By daybreak, we’d torn down camp and packed most of it. We were boiling water for two cups of Egg Scramble. I wanted coffee, bad. We’d hedonistically sacrificed our last two packets of instant while sitting around the campfire listening to hoot owls and coyotes the night before, wondering if the drips of rain would amount to anything and watching insects leap into the flames. Never mind, soon we’d begin our trek back to civilization and I might get to see coffee by noon. For now, I was telling Rob about the weirdly coherent dream I had, while we watched the fog rise from the valley below. It will probably melt into staccato rain by the time we descend into it.