I ride my bike over the eclipse. I meet my friends at a studio cafe. I order Martian Red Tea with a pirouette of Star Nectar, then sip it through a lag bolt. We decide to Go Bust, I suddenly realize I don’t have The Suitcase with me.

I know it. It’s wrapped in years of blue tape, overlaid with travel patches. I return to previous dreams to retrieve it. I always find it, but return too late. Defeated again, I’m forced to store it at The Station.

I wake up crying, reaching for its handle. I want to follow it, to be attached to it. I want my friends. But in every dream, I’m forced to hand it to a Station Agent, then look for it in another dream.

Today, I’m sitting in my psychotherapist’s office. I don’t have an appointment. The person who handed me last night’s claim stub, is the next patient I’ve seen in this waiting room after my sessions end. As Dr. Plank ushers my stranger in, I rush the door, raising the claim stub overhead, held tight in my battered and bruised fist, screaming—

“ANSWERS!!”