I am with someone else. We are in Vietnam, walking through swamp and terrain bordering a river. It is the present, not the past. We are lost. We pass an American who holds up a strand of fishing line with a lure attached to it. He says, "This came all the way from TEXAS." We continue walking. I say, "We're supposed to be going to An Loc or Loc Ninh. I take the lead, follow a path, a well-used trail, and emerge in a clearing. It is clean and well-tended; I am reminded of Maplewood Park. Recollection ends here. I am in a trench in charge of an M-60 or a SAW machine gun. Opposite me, less than ten yards away, in another trench, are several Americans. Lt. Sharp tells me to fire on them. I don't want to kill them. Waking up from the dream I am half shouting, "Get down."