Nightmare #8. I’m in my childhood home on Woodstock Drive, standing barefoot on seafoam carpet. Dave is angry at me but I can’t remember why. He throws a Rubbermaid bowl at my head. It misses and hits the wall, leaving a small, brown swath of brownie batter. He shrieks: “Why do you treat me like this?!” I answer: “You can’t even remember when my frikkin’ birthday is.” Now Dave is leaving in a huff. He has all of his possessions bundled in a bandana and tied to a stick, hobo-style. “I’m going away for a while. Things will be different.” A tin of cashews falls out as he slams the door. Gone. “Nothing stays the same,” the grandfather clock whispers in its raspy, reedy voice. I smell smoke and the phone rings.