A phone rings.
"Hey, Dwyane -- not sure if I spelled that right. Anyway, how are things?"
"Who is this?"
"Your worst nightmare. Ha ha."
"Guilty as charged. Are you watching The Twilight Zone on Veoh? It sounds like you are."
"I was sleeping, actually."
"Why? Did somebody slip you a roofie? It's only 4 AM. I hear things about those South Beach clubs, man."
"Do you have any particular reason for calling, Steph?"
"Maybe. I've been sitting in my four-cornered room, staring at candles, and having pareidolic visions."
"I knew you wouldn't understand."
"Well, it is pretty late."
"The party's just getting started, baby! Congrats on your gold medal, by the way."
"I'm really proud of you, Dwyane. You were too green in 2004. You really have come into your own."
"Sometimes I feel like the black Syd Barret."
"You know, the guy who played drums for The Who. So, how's Star? Never mind. We'll have enough time to catch up with each other in training camp."
"Oh, you haven't heard yet? I got the call straight from Pat. I'm to report to training camp after I get back from this auction in Paris. Seriously, you haven't heard? This is gonna be so cool! Beasley needs someone to dish to, doesn't he?"
Don’t be afraid. Bad dreams are only dreams.