"Did you dream while you napped on the sofa?" Betsy asked.
"No. Only up there. I had trouble sleeping on the sofa because I kept thinking about my vision from earlier."
"Was the second time as disturbing as the first?" I asked.
"Yes and no. I wasn't as fearful I couldn't come back but I'm still concerned that it will happen every time I try to sleep. I'm a mess wondering what's wrong with me."
"Could it have something to do with Quinn's experimental stuff?" I asked.
Quinn jumped up defensively. "What I have up there is just a power source and magnetic field. It's harmless. If you think it's capable of something world shattering, you're mistaken. Those units I use have been utilized and tested thousands of times. It's not new equipment. Tesla was messing around with this stuff at the turn of the last century."
"What about the plants you're growing?" Martha asked. "Maybe one of them is like those mushrooms you hear about that book you on a psychedelic vacation."
Betsy perked up. "They say those trips are super vivid."
Quinn grew more annoyed by the minute. "You have to ingest that stuff; not just sleep in a room where they're potted," he complained. "I'm sure Howie didn't snack on what I'm growing! Besides, nothing up there more exotic than what you'd buy in a grocery store."
No one had a rebuttal. Betsy rose and left the room, returning with a tray full of warm scones and strawberry preserves. We all dug in.
Martha spoke up. "What happened to Howie was no ordinary dream, just as he said. For some reason, he experienced a very realistic vision."
"A heightened awareness dream," I offered.
Betsy turned to Howie. "Were you in your dream?"
Howie looked perplexed. "I don't know. I certainly was there observing everything. The people didn't seem to be aware of me."
"I think I'd rather play Monopoly," Quinn grumbled.
"Hush!" his wife said. She turned to him, "You're the scientist. You explain it . . . in English."
Quinn seemed relieved no one was blaming him or his experiments. "I'm not saying exposure to a unique power load might not somehow intensify his imagination and perhaps cause heightened awareness; I'm simply stating there isn't some time machine or magical forest upstairs."
"No one is saying anything as outlandish as that," Martha said.
"Wouldn't that be something?" Betsy exclaimed. "Too bad you couldn't pick where your dream would take you."
I shook my head. "However vividly Howie dreamed, or whatever he had; a vision or an apparition, we all know his mind conjured it up."
"How?" my soul mate contradicted. "Dreams are just conglomerations of thoughts and memories. My dreams, the few times I remember them, are always about things that happened recently; people I just interacted with. What does Howie have to do with ironing clothes and reaping hay?"