Ilana rolls over and glares at me. “Calm down,” she says. “Your freedoms do not include shouting ‘Fire!’ in a crowded Temple.”
“Ohmigod,” I say. “I had the weirdest nightmare.”
“It must be something you didn’t eat,” Ilana suggests.
“I was a dog,” I say.
“A dog?”
“In a comic strip. And there was this music …”
“This is the fluff of which dreams are made?” Ilana sighs. “Let’s hear it…”