The most boring baseball game in history is finishing. I’m here with my family (dad, mom, two brothers…) but we’re oddly out of sync chronologically. Mom is a bit too young but dad is about the right age. My one brother is somehow older than me now and my youngest brother is now reverted to be about ten years old. Regardless, the game is only in the sixth inning but we’ve decided to head out (apparently along with the rest of the spectators). We collect our things (including a bat that was somehow flung up into the grandstand that we (of all people) managed to snag) and start to file out right in the thick of the exodus.
We become separated somehow, me from the family. I can hear them just up ahead but as we cross a bridge from the stadium proper into the complex of parking garages that encases it, I get stuck behind tangles of slower and slower moving families. I begin to panic slightly but realize that’s just my ambulothanatophobia taking over. A few deep breaths later and get out of the stairwell. I can’t even remember what level we’re parked on so I figure the safest thing to do is to just get out of the stairs and the throngs of slow-moving families. This strategy seems to work OK: at least this way if I wind slowly up the parking tower I’ll see the car. (Mini-van?) The garage structure is just as filled with zombie-like families as the stairs though. And only slightly less crowded. (Why are there so many yellow cars?) After a couple of floors, I spot my dad who is winding down, looking for me. “Mom sent me to come find you,” he explains. We’re a few more floors up but he does confirm my suspicions that there is something not quite right about these other families.