It had to be a dream. A nightmare to be exact.I awoke in my bed next to that room, with no recollection of how I gotthere. Surely, that made it a dr...am. Vivid, but imaginary.I put my clothes on and wandered through the garden until I found cookingsmells. I found the Master sitting cross legged eating some flatbread andwhite cheese washed down with tea. He motioned me over with a hearty"Good morning."Even if it was only a dream I should have hated him as a result of it, butagain I found. And he didn’t get it, what he did get was dingy counters and fly specked fluorescent lights, a salmon and turquoise color scheme straight out of 1956. Sam Erickson didn't care, they had coffee, he could smell it wafting above the rank odor of stale fryer grease and a general air of neglect and disuse. Then there was the requisite small town waitress, this one, no longer young, was the epitome of the victim-hood wrought by hard living. And although sitting on a counter stool until Sam’s entry. More

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