I was back in that shit-hole apartment in Fox Point. Early morning, maybe five o'clock. The air was cold, gray and hazy. The walls of my room seemed whiter than usual – glowing almost – peering out from beneath the hood of the sweatshirt I wore to bed. There was thick tension; it was like I was watching myself on television, waiting for my next move. It was at once now and eight years ago. I hadn't met my wife yet, but I knew I would. I knew I would have walk to work in the cold, but work was my job now; not my job then.

I wasn't surprised by being in this place. I always knew this would happen. Still I thought, "what about everything I was going to do, and..." to which a voice in my head argued back, "forget it, nobody cares, besides you're hungry." I stumbled over piles of clothes and junk to the kitchen. I looked in the closet where there was nothing but a lone box of generic macaroni and cheese. It wasn't mine. It belonged to my roommate, but I was getting hungrier so I'd have to owe him. His room was empty anyway. I put water on to boil but I couldn't open the package; the water was boiling, it was freezing in there, I was starving and I couldn't open the package.

Then I woke up.