I'm in the kitchen at my parents' house, standing around the chopping block talking with my siblings, as happens commonly at family get-togethers. For some reason I realize that I'm dreaming, and I tell them that they aren't even real. Then I feel bad for saying that, because it seems kind of disheartening for them to know they're not real, and they all kind of go quiet.

But knowing I'm dreaming, I go look for trouble to cause. I walk into the dining room, where there is an unfamiliar youngish girl sitting on the couch, and put my hand in her shirt.