I am in England. I apply for a job as a counselor or facilitator at a house for the severely disabled. I note there is not elevator and a full flight of stairs to get to the bedrooms. I talk with the owner of the house, an older woman. She says there is a bedroom downstairs I could use. They are glad to have me there. A man, a professional man like a lawyer, lives next door, across the street. He comes over and is impressed with me and likes me. I want to show off my skills for him. My parents are in the background somewhere. So I have the disabled kids form a circle. I am working with a boy named DJ or something like that. He can't speak but manages to respond to me with his eyes or a subtle movement where he seems to get closest to me somehow. This is progress. I ruffle his odd, two-toned blonde hair which is partly pretty and partly coarse. I compliment his pretty hair. This makes him feel good. I am being successful.