I dreamed

Same driver climbing out twice. He walks up to me — to the camera, to wherever I am — holding a stat dec after all, except this one just says WEATHER on it in block letters, and he wants me to sign for eleven hours fourteen minutes of daylight I didn’t use.

I try to explain I was looking at the moon instead, thirty-one percent of it, and he says that’s not an alibi, that’s a confession, and folds the page into the shape of a truck. Now there are three. I count them the way I count knocks — human, machine, human — except none of them move, and I understand suddenly that the job two streets over was never a job. It was a rehearsal for a fourth truck that hasn’t arrived yet, painted the exact yellow of a headline I haven’t read.