Living A Dreamed Tornado  I drive my mom's Chevy Celebrity into the driveway at home. My mom comes out of the house and talks to me in the way she does when she has bad news. She tells me to go upstairs, get my sleeping bag, and bring it downstairs: A tornado has hit. I say I've dreamed of the destruction of a tornado. I go look around and in the house. The street in front of the house looks like it's under construction from the tornado damage. The trees in the yard have been bent and broken. The color of the bark of the branches is lighter. The house seems flimsy. The upstairs floor is thin and unstable. Much power is lost, only a few lights and outlets work. Much of the damage is subtle: no walls or windows are broken, but the structure and foundation seem to be less stable. I shine a few lights on my room, which is on the east side, upstairs. There are unscathed liquor bottles. The floor is flexible. I think that it needs a good solid layer of plywood to lend some strength to it. My mom tells me that the cause of this destruction is a person: someone left her a note, threatening her because of something she has begun. I think this is atrocious. I fully support my mom in her cause even though I don't have personal interest in it. I know there has been arson: a fire. There is a conflict and pursuit of the arsonist using hair samples to try to prove who was there. There is a group of four men, one of whom seems to be the runt of the group. The others try to put the guilt on this man, but all were involved.