Warhead playing at the high school, and somebody in my circle scored tix! (Warhead seems to be a band my psyche made up for this dream.) We are there, the volume is loud, but someone needs to get something from his locker. Why do I hang around with these high-school kids? Through labyrinthine hallways we make our way; I run in to Mike Gudziej, we exchange manly handshakes and I tell him how I always enjoyed his presence at my campaigns, would he like to play in the new one? We are all smiles. I see LML too, but I have nothing to say to him, nor he to me.
'Round about now is when I remember I am crippled. I drag myself along with the rest of my group, by my hands, or swinging my useless legs as I handwalk desk to desk. They must have served us breakfast before the show, because I push my tray of pancakes and hash browns and institutional scrambled eggs before me, picking as we go. Some punk in a leather jacket has sneakily positioned himself beneath a bank of lockers as he tries to break into one of them. None of our business; we move on. Then we are into the labyrinthine passageways between the walls of the labyrinthine halls... More punks in leather jackets are hanging around, looking suspicious, and I wonder if this pack of gamers and math geeks is safe here; but they flatten themselves, spread-eagled, against the walls as we pass. Mission accomplished, we head back to the auditorium. I catch a brief glimpse of the vice-principal of my day, now the principal, Mr. William Cannici. I hope he doesn't see me here! Oh, hey, where's my ticket?