Mary and I are outdoors. I think we are looking for someone, then pause in our search. Mary is wearing what looks like a slip and jersey. She sits down on a low wall or fence made of stone or concrete. It is wet. I remonstrate with her, telling her not to sit in that wet place. She merely pooh-poohs my concerns. I cannot see Mary's face clearly, but I know it is her. She is wearing her hair short, but it is not as short as when it had grown back after the chemotherapy treatment. Yet it is not as long as she had normally worn it.