We were living in the sprawling house that I dream of sometimes. On a higher floor, there had been an old woman living with her granddaughter up in a small cupola. However, one morning she was dead. It was apparently murder, but nobody could figure out how it happened when her doors and windows had all remained locked. Somehow, C. and I ended up with custody of the little girl.
We then went out of town, where we fell in with a gang. I was concerned that we were being set up for some sort of crime, but if that's what was going on, they were taking their sweet time getting around to it-- mostly, what the gang seemed to want to do was shop for fresh vegetables and good cuts of meat, because they were going to cook up a Thanksgiving-like dinner. This started to go on for a long time, so I began to worry that we'd get a parking ticket, because I'd left the rental car in a two-hour meter.
The little girl then went missing, and C. went to find her. I was beginning to suspect that the little girl had, in fact, murdered her own grandmother and I was starting to worry about C. being gone for a while while looking for her. As dinner was starting to be set on the table, I was just a complete string of worries-- where was my wife? had the car been ticketed? was the little girl actually a killer? was the gang just luring us into a false sense of security?