We like fresh air. We usually sleep with both windows next to our bed wide open. Even that’s a compromise, since our last bedroom had French doors, which were almost never closed.

“Our dream house will have balconies off every room,” I tell Jeremy.

“It will look like a forest log with shelf fungus,” he says approvingly.

It’s still pouring with rain and we had to close the windows last night. The house got too stuffy and I had fever-dreams and woke up with a headache.

“I dreamed about competing Olympic bids,” I say, “but I got confused. Redwood City was in Rushcutter’s Bay.”

“That is confusing.”

“Yes. I found out about the bid, by the way. They were going to use Oakland and San Jose and Stanford as well as the city. They wanted Sacramento and Monterey too, but the IOC said it was just too far. Even the revised plan had some things 70 miles apart, whereas in New York it was 30 miles. Much more convenient for the terrorists.”

“I don’t think that’s fair,” says Jeremy. “The terrorists would have brought their services to wherever the event was held.”

“Ideally, though, we’d hold it in Nevada, every event on its own salt flat with a dedicated missile silo.”

Jeremy pretends to be a general: “‘We had to destroy the Olympic Village in order to save it.'”

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