I was about to take college entrance exams and was trying to set pens, pencils, etc., into the slots of a holder when I noticed I must have been suspended in mid-air over a hillside at an angle, because everything I set into a slot slid and fell to the grassy ground below. Nervously, I took a Bic Clic apart, and watched in horror as the refill, spring, and bottom half fell. I consoled myself with the idea that I could look for them later (in that vast amount of grass). I was panicking about having nothing left with which to take the test, but that fear was surpassed by a weird emotional attachment to a cheap, replaceable pen.
I felt something strange and overheard that it was only a minor earthquake — nothing to worry about. I became aware that I was in northern California, which seemed wrong. I didn’t want to worry about earthquakes, too. For reassurance, I turned around and looked for KW. I didn’t see anyone.
For the next part of the test, I found myself with no other choice but to lie on a cold, wet, sloping steel surface to have one finger examined carefully. Why? What was the purpose? Why this awkward, nonsensical position?
I told someone that there seemed to be fewer people enrolled in the following year’s class. “It’s the bad economy,” I noted. “It’s keeping kids out of college.” This seemed terribly wrong to me, but I felt no concern for myself.
The sloping steel finger exam still haunted me.