When she felt more confident with me, she started talking about her dreams.
“They’re really weird sometimes,” she said, “Like this one time I was in this old elementary school they turned into a hospital and then deserted after some kind of war. Only local people were using it again and I ended up in this room where they have rows of cots with babies in them. I spent some time with the babies until I realized they were not babies at all but something different.”
I nodded, signalling I was a good listener and also understood the emotions she was feeling. I stopped myself from retelling a dream I had because she did not want to hear that, she just wanted to talk. Keeping silent, I was scoring points.
“One time,” she continued, “I had a baby myself, only it turned out not to be a good baby at all and I hated it. So I left it at a bus stop.”
“Wait,” I said, “Are we still talking about dreams?”