In the first, I’m with two other people who are waiting to work on some project with O., a woman I haven’t seen in person since 1995. She’s got some sort of scientific lab out in the woods — the sort you’d see on television or in a horror movie — and we’re now just inside, waiting in an industrial corridor outside a locked door that will lead farther inside. Finally, impatient as ever, I try the door and find that it’s now unlocked. I open it and call out, “Hello? Hello? O., are you ready? We’re coming in,” and I and my companions start to head down some steps into what looks like a large basement complex and see a figure — but it turns out to be a pizza delivery guy, who is leaving through a separate door farther back. Was O. waiting for the food to arrive until inviting us in? Or going to eat it before admitting us?

In the second, my friend B. has had surgery. Someone (I think his wife) has told me it’s gone well, but not to tell anyone. Now I’m in a recovery room of some sort, the type where you might find victims of a disaster who’ve gotten triage, and it’s filled with such people and their moans, and a woman in the far corner with a bandaged head says, “I just wish we had news about B.” I say, “Well, he’s out of surgery—“ and the woman sitting on my left, I think my friend Amy, nudges me to keep quiet, so I add, “— but that was days ago. My information is old. Sorry.” 

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