The cajoling works and I tell them I will be there; but I need to change first. My mind wanders through the immediate future: what will the actual view be like? Have native geek engineers made the observation deck look like a Star Trek bridge? Will I feel the final moments of anticipation in my chest? By what chimaeric grafting of language will I balance pride and humility when recounting the moment to family and friends?
But first: where the hell are my pants? I have to change before heading to the observation deck, and I bleeb I left my work clothes in a closet all the way on the other side of this vast operations building. (We must be on Kennedy Space Center, though neither that name nor "NASA" is never spoken.) When I get back to the lounge area—exterior windowed wall running 70 feet along cozy conglomerations of comfy chairs and dining tables—Jaeger and maybe five other folks are sitting around a table rehearsing Pitoni's Cantate Dominum. I breeze past and open the closet. Here are my clothes, but the trousers I wanted are not here.
No matter: since the launch represents the actual end of this project, I need to get my shit out of here anyway, so I grab all the clothes of the hangers and drape them across an arm. Jaeger's group takes a break so Jaeger chats me up about how they sound.
I never make it to the launch, of course. The next thing I remember I am in the house I grew up in, in the master bedroom, or what passed for a master bedroom, by virtue of it being the largest room on the second floor. I'm sitting on the bed talking to Adam. The conversation is convivial but ominous notes are creeping in, suggesting that all is not well. I am relaying a recipe, and when I mention adding water, Adam interrupts, 'Well, water's off limits now.'
Apparently I'm behind on the news and all the water is contaminated. 'Huh, they were still drinking it in Florida,' I say, but now I wonder if it was safe even back then. And now everything is disaster or portent thereof: I watch Adam talking and laughing but I think his eyes look sunken; and a casual, minor cough means he's gravely ill. It's clearly time to wake up.
