After an emotionally wrenching day of working on Florida papers and an evening of watching heartbreaking news reports, I finally fall asleep.

And this is what I dream.

I have just finished running. I’m sitting in the car, which Emily Sisson apparently borrowed without my knowledge. She has left a bag of doughnuts in the passenger seat. Annoyed, I eat them.

She walks up after her cooldown. She says she borrowed the car because she wanted to bring her dog. She doesn’t notice the doughnuts are gone.

We pick up Mo and drive Emily Sisson home. She is living with her parents in a modest home outside of town.

Her mom has been cleaning out the attic and has a huge assortment of outdated electronics stuff — DVD players, vacuum tubes, remote controls, circuit boards — painstakingly sorted on shelves on the front porch. She wants us to take some, but we decline. It’s hard to get excited about vacuum tubes.

I ask Emily Sisson if she has run on the track since it opened after COVID. She says no, because they don’t allow dogs.

As we leave, a pizza guy pulls up. They give us one of the pizzas, even though I ate too many doughnuts.

We drive away.

And then I wake up.

I have no idea what this dream means, other than I clearly have a pastry deficiency.

I’m sending good thoughts to the devastated people of Fort Myers. I wish I could send doughnuts.

I’m going to the track tonight.

I hope Emily Sisson is there.

I hope she brings her dog.

And pizza.