I was a child, and my parents and I had just moved, although we were now in a place that was so close that it must have been almost next door to the old one. I liked my room, which was very close, cluttered, and dark. But one day I remembered my memories and returned to the old place to find them. I had left many things behind that meant so much to me, but now I could find no way to carry them and no place to put them. I mourned these many small things that were invested only with emotional value, sobbing even as I refused to give up.

I was in an empty box car on a freight train and realized that a man was pursuing me. The only place to hide was in an open alcove. If I were fortunate, he wouldn’t look into it. He passed by once without seeing me, but on the return trip he took me captive.

Something happened — I said or did something — and my captor, now a woman, pulled the pin from a hand grenade in response. I was horrified. Just then, the train separated, or she fell off it, because I could see her figure on the tracks as the train I was still on pulled rapidly away. She stood rather stupidly holding the hand grenade, neither throwing it or running away from it. I didn’t want to look, but I couldn’t understand why she was behaving so strangely and what was happening.