I dreamed of hiding in the bushes, with other young revolutionaries, in fear of a grinding, wheezing plane.

I dreamed the tunnel into the convent, and that Fatima of all people led us there, but I did not dream Fatima’s story.  It felt like the truth when I wrote it, though, like the thing which explained exactly who she was, how she came to be this hard person, always one step distant from everything around her, always with that sour smile like you’d best take life as a bad joke or it’d become too unbearable.  The explanation fit the implications of the dream.

I dreamed of visiting the convent, but at this point I feel vague as to which details I dreamed and which ones I made up.  I know that I crawled out of a wide bottom drawer in the sacristy, though.