My mother is frustrated because the lock on her office door is "not electronic." I try to tell her that all the other offices have ordinary mechanical locks, but this just makes her more upset. She despairs that she is going to have to move all her boxes and boxes of books into an office that's "properly equipped," somewhere far away. "But why?" I'm asking over and over again. "Nobody will break the lock that's here. Nobody is interested in breaking into a professor's office anyway."

Finally, with much reluctance, she shows me why she needs an electronic lock so badly. She has set up a security system in her office that turns off all the regular lights and turns on a set of infrared lights. She demonstrates: everything is lit redly, like an old-fashioned darkroom. She proudly displays her special goggles, with which she can defeat any intruder. But this system can only be triggered by an electronic lock, she says, and even my hazy dream-self wonders how she managed to trigger it just now.

A computer that's awkwardly-placed right against the window is rigged to videotape the person who is sitting at it; my mother explains that she can describe what is going on to the camera as the crime is taking place, so that law enforcement can take her statement in real-time. I do not think to ask why she doesn't just turn the camera toward the door, so it can record what is taking place.

* * *

My father has been calling me on my cell phone, urgently telling me that I need to talk to Michel Foucault. I am driving to Toronto; I can see the skyline rising in the smoggy distance.

I don't have Foucault's number, so I decide that, since I'm close to Toronto anyway, I can stop into my dad's office and get the number from him. But when I arrive, the office is in chaos. Inexplicably, I have my bike with me now, and also two friends who were not in the scene before and whom I can't actually recognize, and the bike and the friends are constantly getting in the way as I try to manoeuvre through the maze of half-height dividers so that I can talk to my dad. But he, too, is surrounded by people, who seem to be very worried about this Foucault thing, and who don't want me to make the call.

My friends are trying to tell me that Foucault's number is in my cell phone, but I know for a fact that only the first four numbers are. I never do manage to make the call.