Countdown to my Mother's Birthday 3

When I was young, my mother often dreamed that she had killed a man. Terrified that she would be found out, she did what any good mother would do and buried him in the basement. I remember listening to her recount her dream on the car ride to school. Possibility swelled through the Honda as I sat in awe of what we humans might be capable of, mesmerized, really, by all the secrets we could potentially lug around--stuffed into the glove compartment or thrown into the backseat-- discovered only if we happened to be looking for something else entirely.