It is evening, and I find myself with some friends in the old Cowboys Stadium, though dream logic dictates that it also doubles as a prison exercise yard. Each corner of the field is marked by an iron watchtower, creaky, rusted, and unstable. They are connected to each other by a series of flimsy bridges made of foam. The foam is of the quality of the pits at kid’s gymnastic center, and sags in the middle, creating a spider-web of walkways spanning the length of the field. My friends, giggly and drunk, zip across one of these bridges with ease, turning to face me on the other side. They shout encouragement, psyching me up for my cross.
“Run, bitch! C’mon! Let’s go, pussy! You can make it, go!”
Being so high up in the air, without guardrails, I am thinking about the possibility of a fall. But, I step over the threshold of apprehension and begin my sprint. About halfway across, my feet begin to sink into the foam, making my movements agonizing and ineffectual. I slip, and manage to cling to the edge of the foam bridge, which twists and undulates in the grip of my hand. I fear I am about to fall to my death. I dangle, silent, and then I wake up. Anxious and sweaty.