There was running. And then, as quickly as she realized it, a movement under the sheets and a shift in light through the curtains. A change in scenery: the dark, mossy woods transform into a spinning ceiling fan above. Outside, there's the sound of a car starting. She pulls the blankets in tight, closes her eyes, and tries to go. Back.

The escalator to the top grinds away. Standing to the right, you hold the railing and the belt moves faster than your feet. Adjust, so that you don't grab the ass of the person leaning to the side ahead of you. You're halfway there. Reach into your back pocket to get your fare card and hit your funny bone. Ow. Turn to see someone dragging up an extra large Samsonite, knuckles white with a straining grip. At the top, a blowing fan and a gaggle of station managers. The turnstile opens and your day begins.

Take a walk in the sideways rain over skywalks with iron railings; the smell of a Chinese restaurant hits as it wafts from the next block. A child's plastic tricycle leans against a dilapidated playhouse-- the AstroTurf-covered deck is three storeys above a gas station. There's a screech of brakes, a crash, and the homeless from the park nearby walk close to see, their tattered blankets drag on the ground as they watch the crushed Benz cause distractions.