The fridge is an elevator but it fits one and is agonizingly slow. When I walk out I look down at my hands and think, "I'm staring at my hands." As they go in and out of focus I realize that either I'm dreaming or I need new contact lenses, and in so doing seem to have reasoned my way out of a lucid dream. Then I wake into a gravel road with a parked minivan containing the seven members of the black a cappella group I used to sing with. I open the passenger door to take an imitation muted trumpet solo then wave goodbye. And as I hit the campground I hear the strains of a country hook I know is mine to use: "...with Hank Williams hanging in the air."