I made up the conversation asking Malcolm to take the lead.  Deirdre would have done that, under the circumstances.  So would Lucinda, had she had the chance.  Kief would not.

I dreamed of Gaziley being a lousy shot, intractable to training.  Considering his habit of wearing eyeliner and improvising when he couldn’t get the real thing, it didn’t take much to deduce that he’d gone blind in one eye, and had no depth perception.

As for the rest of the conversation, often, when I dreamed of Lucinda, I got a whiff of apple-blossom scent.  It matters, actually, though I can’t exactly say how.

          I read in the waking world of a teenage boy prostituting himself to take care of a baby daughter.  I translated that into the altar-boy taking care of younger siblings. (The waking world boy and his teenage girlfriend—the poor young fools!—both sold themselves in desperation to buy diapers and formula, knowing nothing about reusable cloth diapers or the advantages of breast milk.)

          I dreamed, sometime or other, of Damien telling me, “I’m writing a song called ‘The Black Retreat’.”