She likes feeding Auntie Zeng’s fish, watching it wiggle toward the flakes and gobble them down. She likes sitting in the park in autumn and letting the dead leaves blow around her and thinking she can maybe hear Harvey’s voice. She likes when Auntie Zeng drives her to the beach and she sits on the sand and lets the cold water rush over her feet. None of those things are dreams, or even jobs. But they are pieces. Maybe Cora can use them to build something else, to start imagining what a dream might look like.
