She baked him cookies. Well the 3d printer made them as she mentioned the recipe to him in the video chat with only a brief hesitation as the computer searched for her recipe. She smiled and told him of her day the day before and how she had made a new vase in her art class. A few seconds later he had it in his hands.
The pilot thinks for a moment high in the sky as an engine sputters of where he might land, of how perhaps it might be in a field near cows and a river, how it might be into a city almost to be lost in the hum of traffic and commerce, perhaps onto a family settling to a dinner at the table.
The sky is a cruel pristine blue. The few high clouds waft above him like serene atmospheric jellyfish.
He had that dream again. The one with that road, that hill, that intersection never born of the dust and pollen of the real world. The dream with that sense, that gut rumbling dread and that hum of unease , that dream with the car that never has the same driver, never the same interior, never the same engine sound, but 20 years of it navigating those damn hills, stopping at that intersection of pure impasse.
The dream was one of those odd places in sleep, some odd neural drain pipe mold collection, he had a few such places imagined that his dreams sutured to. One was an impossible university campus that had the greenest hills, most gorgeous Spanish style roofed buildings, a cafeteria always open partially inside a giant redwood tree and a dorm he shared with the ghosts of past. Another was a humble 50’s home with a perpetually flooded front yard he for 20 years had toured with a dull, droning real estate agent and his best friend. Another was a thousand odd variations of his parents house sold long ago; it at times had hidden rooms in walls and tenants in rooms inside the aging, dull stairs, at times it had a glimmering impossible view of ocean from the San Fernando valley. Other times it sank into that ocean, eaten as though waves were foamed with teeth and tide was a bored potent mouth.