CPCC, but an oddly patched-over version, there are aspects like no place I have ever worked – located among storefronts and apartment houses, and a few blocks away must be the ocean. At some point I become aware that I can’t remember my commute; I gaze around suspiciously to try and figure out what else is missing, probing for some seam in the fabric of reality that will justify my disquiet. Clothes and laundry scattered all over the floor, and me in just a blouse-y T and underwear. I straighten my underwear as Henry (the maint engineer) tries to show Dad how he uses his PDA to access his bank account. Still, I’m puzzled. And what is my job here? What have I done all day? Getting dark, Armando the roach coach driver perched like a gnome on his truck, fumbling with burgers and wallet, and a brief spell with my fellow employees – Dawn and other girls from my grammar school days, and it almost arouses my suspicion that we are all together again, so far from our neighborhood. I get into Dad’s car, back seat, Mom in front, and I try to explain how I’m afraid I am dreaming. The city (FtL or an imaginary, Palm-Beach-like St Pete?) shines back at me in crisp clean model detail – big primary colored office buildings with decorative knight helmets, all familiar as only things in a dream can be, lulling me back into the illusion.