I must have been a teacher's aide for a third grade class. Both the teacher and I were brand new at the job. Strange things were happening. Then the teacher discovered an old yearbook hidden on a dusty shelf. She looked up the third grade and the faces were all the same as the students we had now. Somehow we both knew that this was a very bad sign.
I woke up startled. And with a good idea for a ghost thriller.
Then I walked many miles to the house of people I used to know. There were two big black dogs in the yard. One was barking, but the other one looked mean. I knocked on the door and asked the woman who answered if she knew where the Jones family was living now. She looked at me strangely and tried to get me to leave. I told her that I was there on almost a daily basis when the Joneses lived there and she invited me right in. When I looked around the house was completely different from before.
Another sequence involved driving through a field filled with slushy snow and something about religious books.
I got tangled up in the Christmas tree lights. Most of them weren't working anyway.
Dispatch from Portland's March for Our Lives
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