She woke flying, her cheeks burnt to a flush, the world an illusion in lipstick tones of green, a loudspeaker advertising local services-if you need a new car speak to the guys at green Toyota. Everything green washed. The grass striped, eucalyptus-swayed leaves, olive bark. The land was not hers. Interloper. Dressed in local clothes but speaking in tongues.

A pop song everyone knew played in the background. It was by all accounts a beautiful day. People said it again and again. She was a migrant to the space, caught between worlds, at the intersection of now and then. Like a level crossing. A train zoomed by. She saw both spaces simultaneously, she knew and everyone knew from her accent, the tilt of her head, that she was different.

A game was being played. Every now and again a whistle blew. When that happened the ground shifted. People shook their heads. She absorbed it, wrote it, syncopated the sounds, the dream she was finally able to shake into a warm wind against her cheek, the buzz of gnats above the bleachers, and thump of ball on boot in the strange familiar unfamiliar present that never happened.