one. what sticks to memory, often, are those odd little fragments that have no beginning and no end. – Tim O’Brien Theo surfaces on his back and sits up, netted in white sheets cool and slightly ocean-damp, the dream before him, a scrim he sees through as behind it are the things in his room: the wall, the window, his stuff, all behind his father in a hotel room, with an eyepatch, and a model train track on the bed in a figure eight, and a knock on the door and a man in a blue uniform in a weird hat and Theo asking him, are you the conductor and now Theo awake in one place that’s two. He flops back down, the mattress bouncing a little, not sure of anything for a minute, then is asleep again, and his teeth are falling out. He is sitting at a table in a place like a bar, he’s been to bars before with adults, there is music, and adults stare at him, and he wiggles his front tooth with his tongue.
