My wife and I are house shopping, and we are walking down a woody path to the For Sale sign. Along the way, we see squirrels — lots of them. And one in particular is enormous, as big as a child.
“Do squirrels get that big?” I ask my wife.
She shrugs and we move on.
We arrive at a house that is actually a train, as in a locomotive. Old-timey, all black and with a steam chimney. The owner, a woman, greets us. Inside, the train is well furnished. It’s long, but it’s a house with all things you’d expect in a house. She meets us at the kitchen.
“I need to be able to drive this thing,” I tell her.
“You can’t. It’s a house. Besides, you need a license if you wanted to drive it.”
“What about the electricity, water?” I ask, thinking you couldn’t move a house-train so easily.
“There’s another train house down a bit,” she says. I think she’s trying to get rid of me.
And then I wake up.
Commentary: On a recent run, I ran past a trailer park. Trailers sort of look like railway cars, don’t they?