There is a guy in the park across the street. He is wearing a black sweatshirt and he is running towards us. He is firing a gun.

The people who were standing next to me have thrown themselves to the ground. The people in front of me are standing as they were, waiting for the community event to start. I have dropped into a crouch and scuttled to put a stack of metal folding chairs between me and the intent to kill.

This is not a dream.

At the event, I am showing a family the house that will be theirs. It is still mostly concrete and studs, and together we are imaging the living room, the bedrooms, the sweep of the famous skyline beyond what will be windows, the view of the park across the street. She can hardly believe it, she still wears 20 years of hard labor as her skin. She turns to me and her eyes are wet. She asks me:

Is this a dream?

I'm not done watching the sun go down from this particular spot in the world. But the man that owns the house is done, rolling up his family and his failures and heading back to Minnesota, and taking the lease with him.

On the car radio the woman says "I was acting as a bridge" and I come across the boy on his way home from school. He is walking up the hill, his hands full of wild onions.

Tomorrow, I will be married.