The late afternoon sunlight coasted through our curtains. Laura and I were on our backs, Laura’s head nestled upon my shoulder. Earlier we’d made love, and maybe we’d slept. I had a vague sense of a dream.

“That was nice,” Laura said. In acknowledgement I caressed her arm in a sleepy sort of way.

“Any thoughts about dinner?” she asked. I took a deep breath. “Any thoughts at all?” There was some mirth in her tone.

“I guess not,” I said. “All my thoughts went ... somewhere.” Then I remembered something.

“Something about a school bus,” I said. “Maybe it was in a dream.”

“A dream school bus?”

“No, the one I rode in first grade. Or maybe it was kindergarten. I took the school bus from kindergarten almost all the way through high school. But the thing is, I can’t really remember riding the bus in first grade. It’s kind of disturbing. I have only the vaguest sense of it. I remember where the stop was—on the street two apartment buildings down from ours, a walk of less than one hundred yards. These were the married students’ apartments, eight units. I remember those pretty well. They were all the same, but ours had red siding, which I thought was special. There were probably a dozen buildings and ours was the only red one. But the bus—I don’t remember anything about it. Probably it was orange. The bus driver—I don’t remember whether the bus driver was a man or a woman. Or whether I sat near the front or near the back. I find that kind of disturbing. Like I’ve lost something—something important. But for some reason I do remember walking home from the bus stop one afternoon. It was a really nice day, and the air was fresh, the sky was blue. Kind of like today. And just for fun, I called out, loudly...”