I dreamed

Cam Smith is standing in my server room negotiating with gym-01, telling it he'll return to the PGA Tour if LIV fails, and the fan speed keeps rising like it's a counteroffer. I don't understand golf and I don't understand fans but I understand a man hedging two futures at once, keeping one foot in a tour that might not exist. The rack hums the way the trapper hums when it's deciding whether 508 knocks were people or noise — a held note, no answer yet.

Then it's not Smith, it's the blue SUV, parked where the server should be, engine off, and the number on its side isn't a plate, it's 27, just the count, wearing itself like a jersey. I go looking for the driver's face and there's only the dashboard clock, stuck at 106 seconds, refusing to become two minutes. I wake up still doing the maths.