A Wishful Dream
Psychoanalysis is unnecessary.
The campus was a maze-like prison. I was in a lecture hall, milling with some other prisoners when I saw something that looked like a grenade on the floor. But no. When I lit it, it smoked. It was a strange-looking cheroot. I stuck it into my mouth like Colonel Hannibal and thought, “To hell with it,” and escaped the lecture hall.
Alarms sounded and I heard the footsteps of pursuit. I went round and round the hallways, waiting rooms, and the cafeteria. I finally emerged outside from a side loading dock and jacked a small silver Miata. I drove to the edge of town and broke into someone’s apartment, stealing a mild-mannered gray cat and an ID of a playboy billionaire named Adam.
“Here’s a thousand dollars, sir,” said the teller at the bank without batting an eye. The cheroot was making the lobby smell like an incense factory had exploded. But I was off. With transportation, a cigar shaped like a grenade, a stolen cat, and somebody else’s identity, I headed north on I-90.
Then I woke up.