Francisco opened his eyes. Sand clung to his face, hands, and arms. He lay at the foot of a large heap of sand at the back of a construction site. The last thing he remembered from this sequence was with Rachael again. She had been sitting on his lap showing him how to convert a Youtube video soundtrack into an MP3 file. He still felt her weight pressing close to his legs. He still heard the echo of her laughter. The scent of her hair lingered. But how could her scent be there at all if he was dreaming or remembering. Something was poking his thigh from inside his pocket. He withdrew a folded piece of paper and a photograph. His life was beginning to feel as convulsive as a Barnaby Furnas canvas.
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