I had a dream last night that I wish I could understand. I was a young black woman walking with my husband in an urban landscape. I turned around and ran back to the house to get something, and somehow stepped outside of the bubble of psychic protection that surrounded all of us. In seconds the corners crawled with threatening figures. Some of them started to chase me and I ran in terror, my adrenaline so high that I couldn’t feel the rocks they threw at me. I lost them only to come across another band of attackers, this one nastier and more leering than the first. Fences and cars were obstacles in a deadly race; I knew it was just a matter of time before I got to find out what it feels like for the wolves to close in. But who was I? As I climbed a fifteen-foot fence and tore gashes in my skin with the razor wire, I woke up for a second and gasped with relief. I actually decided to go back to sleep to finish the dream. I wanted to prolong the moment of bleeding at the top of the fence, looking down into the walled-in lot where angry shadow men with baseball bats waited for me to jump.