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Say, we haven’t seen you for a few days. What’s the matter, mad at us?” she kidded. “I couldn’t be mad at anybody, the way I feel. But I am sure mad at myself, and for no reason, except maybe because it’s Sunday.” “Shall I put your favorite music on the machine?” she asked, hoping to shake him from his mood. “Yes; yes, indeed. Here is the money. I insist you use it.” Adam felt strange. Cold electricity seemed to shoot through him, and goose pimples wanted to rise from his skin. He felt good as the waitress selected the number from the music box. Then the goose pimples were no longer undecided; they burst out fully all over. The number “Siboney” burst out from the music box, and the waitress remarked how these machines were always making errors. Adam felt even more concerned about it. He did not remember Siboney being among the records in the machine. They must have brought in some new ones since he last ate here. Why did it haunt him so? Oh, so what! he reflected. He had more important things to muse over than a music record. He dreamed of Dora. Yes, Dora. It may have been a dream, but he knew Dora and he felt sure she was in the straits his dream had told him of. Anyhow, he would be going back to Seattle in a couple of days, and would rush to her. He wanted so much to see her. Throughout the rest of the day, which did prove to be Sunday and not Wednesday, Adam wrestled with many new thoughts. Dream or no dream, something about the desert demanded his being here. Yet, he wanted to take off for Seattle to be at Dora’s side, if not for her sake then for his own. He now needed her more than she ever needed him; and all because of a long dream. But that bright sun in the sky. It was not the sun he had known for thirty-eight years, yet it was the very same sun, the same sun Dora saw, that Dora felt through the hazy atmosphere of Seattle. Surely she was more subject to the sun than Seattle. Seattle. Surely she was more subject to the sun than she was to Adam. She was a product of the sun, as every- she the than was more sun 183 THE EASE OF FORGETTING