The Train to Elsewhere moved quietly through the afternoon.
Missy sat beside the window with her boots resting against the edge of the opposite seat. Beyond the glass, the landscape passed in long green folds, interrupted now and then by a mountain that appeared to be thinking.
Bob sat across from her, wearing his top hat and listening with the grave concentration of someone determined not to look interested.
“So let me understand,” he said. “You fell asleep on the train.”
“Yes.”
“Then you woke inside a cave.”
“Yes.”
“There was a squirrel.”
“Yes.”
“A living alphabet.”
“Yes.”
“A philosophical basket.”
“It was more opinionated than philosophical.”
Bob nodded.
“An important distinction.”
Missy continued.
“Then the cave began to flood. The squirrel and I climbed out, but the moment we stepped outside, the cave disappeared.”
“Caves do that.”
“They do?”
“No. But on this train, confidence is often more useful than accuracy.”
Missy gave him a look.
Bob adjusted his hat.
“Continue.”
“We found ourselves in the highlands beside an enormous oak tree. There was bread, wine, and a wooden table waiting for us.”
“That sounds less like a dream and more like competent hospitality.”
“The squirrel opened a notebook and began writing down everything we had learned.”
Bob’s ears tilted forward.
“What had you learned?”
Missy began counting on her fingers.
“That water is always coming. That talking is not the same as seeing. That seeing is not the same as doing. That empty baskets rarely solve problems.”
“Sensible.”
“And that acorns are the building blocks of reality.”
Bob lowered his eyes.
“There it is.”
“What?”
“The part where philosophy loses adult supervision.”
Before Missy could answer, the compartment door slid open.
The Conductor Squirrel entered with his brass clipboard tucked beneath one arm. His cap sat perfectly straight between his ears.
In his other paw, he carried an acorn.
Missy stopped speaking.
The squirrel stopped walking.
For several seconds, they stared at one another.
Bob looked from Missy to the squirrel, then from the squirrel to the acorn.
“Oh, good,” he said. “The dream has filed a complaint.”
Missy rose slowly.
“You.”
The Conductor glanced behind himself.
“Me?”
“I saw you in my dream.”
The Conductor looked at Bob.
“Has she been asleep long?”
“Long enough to reorganize metaphysics.”
Missy stepped closer.
“You were in the cave. You had a notebook.”
The Conductor raised his clipboard.
“I always have a notebook.”
“You were writing down everything I said.”
“That sounds less like a dream and more like standard railway procedure.”
“In my dream, you said acorns were the building blocks of reality.”
The Conductor’s whiskers twitched.
“I said that?”
“You wrote it down.”
“That does sound more serious.”
“It was not.”
Bob jumped onto the table and inspected the acorn from every direction.
The Conductor glanced once more at it. Then he looked down the corridor.
“By the way, have either of you seen Bearton Rogers?”
Missy shook her head.
“Why?”
The Conductor held up the acorn.
“He dropped this in the baggage compartment.”
Missy was about to ask another question when she noticed that they were no longer alone.
At the far end of the compartment sat two gentlemen she was certain had not been there a moment before.
One held a cigar and regarded the acorn with professional suspicion.
The other rested a pipe beside an open red notebook and studied Missy as though her dream had confirmed something.
Bob followed her gaze.
He sighed.
“Of course.”
Missy lowered her voice.
“Are those Freud and Jung?”
“Yes.”
“How long have they been sitting there?”
“Probably since the dream became symbolic.”
Freud adjusted his spectacles.
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