My memory was going in and out. It must have been heat exhaustion; later that night, I found my laptop in my bag, swollen and melted from heat. If I’d started the day with water, I didn’t have any by the end. Sitting at the kitchen table, head pounding, I didn’t even know how the day had started.

Memory flashes in and I am cleaning dishes in an empty cafeteria. There’s a sense that everyone’s gone, for the day or for the season, though the light is coming in as if it were noon. It feels like I had been here before, like the mess was mine, from some unspecified amount of time ago, hours or months.

Memory drops out. It drops in, briefly, and I am walking into that same cafeteria—  is this before or after?—  hurriedly, but not so hurriedly as to scare the person heading in before me.

I also found movie tickets in my bag, which triggered a memory of sitting in a cool theater.