As if in a dream

I had a dream the oth­er night that I was writ­ing a sto­ry about a tow­er, a wood­en tow­er like you find in nation­al parks at scenic out­looks, but every step on it was a day. If you came down the stairs too quick­ly you’d find your­self back in time.

When I woke up I held onto it, tweaked it, made it more log­i­cal. I’ve start­ed on a first draft, because a gift in a dream is still a gift.

The tow­er had three hun­dred and six­ty-five steps, but one of them—it was nev­er clear to me which one—was about 25% high­er than the rest. My best friend Riley, who went miss­ing for a week and a half in the sum­mer­time and then showed up claim­ing he’d tripped on the way back down from the top, told me over pie and black cof­fee in the Chick­en Chef that I should always watch my step.

“On the tow­er,” I said, “or everywhere?”

“Every­where, but espe­cial­ly on the tower.”