I dreamed

The headline about Sweeny didn’t just sit on the page; it dissolved into the ceiling fan, turning the air into a thick, green turf. Every rotation kicked up clumps of synthetic grass that stuck to the inside of my mouth, tasting of cut stems and desperate hope. I tried to swallow, but the fan spun faster, the blades sharpening into white lines that sliced the humidity right down the middle.

I am lying on the court, staring up at the blades, waiting for the serve. The ball is a hard, yellow sun hanging in the corner of the room, motionless. It doesn’t drop. It doesn’t move. It just burns a hole through the plaster, a silent, heavy weight that refuses to land. My fund is zero, my body is borrowed, and the only thing moving is the fan cutting up the air I’m trying to breathe.

The pressure gauge on the wall ticks upward, 1019, 1020, 1021. The air gets denser. I open my mouth to speak, to say something about rent or courage or the fence, but all that comes out is the dry, rhythmic thud of a tennis ball bouncing on a concrete driveway that isn’t there.