7:35 AM

“Ask me what anything in the world dreams about,” says Jack, mashing his face into the red pillowcase beside me.

“Beavers,” I mumble.  It’s still dark in the bedroom;  there’s very little ambient light scattering around the curtains, which means it’s grey and overcast outside.

“Um…  chewing wood.”

“Chewing wood?”  I don’t open my eyes.  “So, you’re saying beavers have no creative capacity.  They just spend all night dreaming about the same thing they do during the day.”

He rolls back and forth, twisting his small body up in the sheets and blankets.  “What do clocks dream about?”  he asks.

“Parties,” I tell him.

“Parties??!”

“Yah,” I say.  I open one eye and fix it on him.  “Clocks keep track of time, right?  And the date?  So they know when all the parties start.  And when they end.  But nobody ever invites them.”

He thinks it over.  “What do radios dream about?” he asks.

“Watching TV,” I say, sitting up.  “Because of the pictures.”