"Why won't God speak to me?"

I'm in a classroom. Three or four brown-haired students sit one in front of the other in a row of desks. They're characters from The Raven Cycle by Maggie Stiefvater. I haven't read The Raven Cycle, but my friends have, so I know their names.

"That one's Blue," I say, indicating the second student, "because she's wearing a blue dress."

"So is that girl," somebody says. The girl behind Blue has braided hair, glasses, and a plaid blue dress.

"That's Gansey. She becomes a dude later in the series."

I deduce that the boy in the very front is Noah. I don't know enough characters from The Raven Cycle to identify the fourth.

*

I'm outside a chapel, holding a wooden rod from which is suspended several unhewn crystals of varying size. A believer has just come out of the chapel and asks the attending priest, "Why won't God speak to me?"

I feel like an impostor, with my gossamer cloak and veil—a weird goth hoping to summon a dragon in a house of God. But it's my turn, so I enter.

The chapel is small, decorated with clay pots and a single roughly crafted wooden cross. The windows run from ceiling to floor, but there's little to see besides clouds and blue; we're very high up, in a tower or a skycraft.

I stand before the cross and shake my prayer crystals. I don't think the dragon will come, but then it does.

It's huge—and beautiful, all white scales and orange accents. It bumps its face against the windows, and I stand frozen, whether by fear or by faith, keenly aware that if those windows should break, there is nothing between me and either the dragon or a very long fall. I use my height to estimate the size of its head. Five feet?

*

I'm in Gerard Way's apartment with Gerard Way. He's sitting on the couch, enthusing about social media, namely Instagram or Vine. I think to myself, "I should have taken an Instagram video of the dragon." Clint Eastwood is somewhere behind Gerard. I take a photo of them and joke about Clint Eastwood being a dragon. It's funny.

Gerard has a second bedroom filled with toys. Some are the kinds of tabletop models people painstakingly paint, kept in a glass case behind a twin bed. There may be toy trucks as well. I comment on the room. "IF YOU HAD A SPARE BEDROOM," says Gerard, "YOU WOULD FILL IT WITH TOYS, TOO." I inquire about the bed, and he offers it to me.

I'm holding a half-lemon and half-lime, both squeezed dry. I would like to throw them away, but I can't find Gerard's trash can. He waves vaguely toward the kitchen island. "It's right there somewhere." I'm already at the kitchen island, and I can't find it. Gerard is so unhelpful. I eventually throw the lemon and lime away in a bag that I'm not sure was for trash.

*

There's a comic convention at my house. A small one, like Image Expo or Alternative Press Expo. Creators and fans are gathered downstairs. I believe Gail Simone is in attendance. Some comics are announced, including one drawn by an artist group called ENGAGE. "Oh, I wanted to read that," I say, not really interested. As the announcements continue, I go upstairs to my bedroom. The great thing about conventions taking place in my house, I think, is that whenever I'm tired I can just go to my room. After recuperating on my bed awhile, I leave my room and run into some weird goths who've made it upstairs. One of them is possibly Tharja from Fire Emblem: Awakening. I close my bedroom door and hope they don't go inside.