While driving somewhere, I see a new freeway off-ramp under construction. It descends from a wooden overpass partly obscured by clouds, is impossibly steep, and has no visible means of suspension. The pavement stops about a hundred feet above the ground. In an almost vertical position, two or three pieces of heavy equipment defy gravity while the workers take a coffee break. I pull off the road. Near an old industrial building, I see an adult version of a boy I knew in grade school. He seems down on his luck. I say his name, "Ernesto." The two of us walk around a corner. Ernesto tells me he needs a job. We come to a blue door. I point at it and say, "Have you asked at the mailroom?" He says no, and walks off alone.