It’s some kind of All Wrangler Congress or Extended Family Reunion. Everyone is there, plus some “new recruits” or “applicants” or whatever you might want to call new friends. We’re all in some kind beach house. You can hear the ocean in the far background. I’ve woken up and stumbled into the kitchen to find that most everyone else is already awake and has crowded in there. There is a lot of discussion, a lot of chatter. Some folks are reading a short story that I’ve written and published. Others are reading the newspaper. Spirits are high. John has a miniature hip flask that he shares with me; it contains a rather sweet whiskey. Sarah (who is making the biggest batch of scrambled eggs anyone has ever seen) comes over, takes the flask, and pours a little of it out onto the sleeve of my bathrobe. She does the same to John. She rubs the whiskey in and explains that if we’re going to be published, our bathrobes need to smell like whiskey.