I am seated on a couch near a bike. I hear my father's yacht and think it would be fun to dance on the yacht, but choose not to. An old Indian woman in a wheelchair rolls up to me. She tells me that my father is using and wasting lots of gasoline that she and her people could use for a better life. I feel badly. She leaves. A good-looking man watches caringly. I talk with a young adult woman who just got married. She shows me dream symbols. I see a stone and an iron and a shirt. I say, "Hey, these are all work. There is no fun here in this room." I see a philodendron plant on a worn carpet. The good-looking man comes and stands by me. He is loading his gun. I say, "Oh, so that's where the bullets are" (a box on a dresser). My father uses those bullets too. He says, "Yes," and I tell him about my experiences with the old woman. We are very close. He says, "I'll show you how to load the gun." Our heads touch as we draw closer to look. I see big, grey pewter bullets. It feels very good to be close to this caring man.