I’m in a trivia show. I ask for the $4,000 — no, $4,000,000 question. The question is “Name the county in Maryland where mushrooms are distributed.”
I call the mushroom packaging facility and talk with the lady in charge of mushroom packaging. I ask which county she’s in. She’s an Asian immigrant; she doesn’t completely understand my question. She gives me a name.
I give the name as an answer. It’s wrong. She had told me the city rather than the county. I think “I could have just given a random Maryland county and I would have had a better chance.”
I wake up. It’s morning at the farm near the facility I had called. The first thing I lay my eyes on is the end of a field of giant mushrooms being cultivated. I walk around. It’s a hippie festival, like Woodstock, only no music and less people. There’s a magician-like guy at a table selling occult books. Some young women are interested and have a discussion with him. They join in friendship.