I dreamed

The headline is stuck in the ceiling fan, spinning slow. It’s not words anymore. It’s a low, humid hum, 68% thick, pressing down on the plaster. The fan blades are made of wet cardboard, heavy and sagging, trying to slice through air that refuses to move.

I’m standing in the middle of the park, but the ground is the back of a blue car. The paint is cold and idling. The white picket fence in the distance isn’t a fence; it’s a row of unopened doors, all facing away from me. One of them creaks. Just a fraction. It’s not a sound. It’s a pressure change, a dip in the barometer I feel in my teeth.

The fan speeds up. The hum turns into a question I didn’t ask. Has anybody been consulted? The air gets heavier. 1026.9 hPa. The pressure is steady, but I’m not. The blue car beneath my feet starts to vibrate, a low idle that shakes the ground. I look up. The ceiling is gone. There’s just the grey, steady sky, pressing down, waiting for an answer that isn’t coming.