My breath really does smell pretty deathy.

It all started on TV. Mike Conley was playing for some Laker-colored basketball team most of whose members had ridiculous mohawks. Mike didn't though. And he wasn't wearing their jersey either, now that I think of it, so maybe he was on the other team. Way to go, Mike. Beat those stupid haircuts.
The jersey I was wearing was from my first year playing basketball with the Washington Wildcats, one of those reversible bits. I was wearing it with the white side and not the blue side showing. It was so tight that when I decided to take it off I had to get help from my father. I was quite grateful until he told me, at a volume audible to every person near, that my breath smelled horrible. And so I played the angry pout.
I couldn't understand why there were no instructions further than "Write about the Civil War." I couldn't get an explanation from anyone and time was winding down and I couldn't decide just what to write about and WHY CAN'T I BE ASSIGNED A MORE SPECIFIC TOPIC? "Surely I will fail," I thought, mesmerized by the scoreboard.
On our way out, my father and I ran into a rather cheery Yani. She needed a ride and my father more or less ignored her. We were the ones giving her a ride, but she led us to our car, which wasn't quite ours. It was an old Subaru-looking piece. She got in. And so it ended right there, Yani, in the car my father was supposed to drive, and I, standing outside wondering where the car came from, wondering where any of it came from.

Joe Hill, but not the freedom fighter.

I witnessed from the side of the room - in front of a door, I imagine - King of Hill's Dale leading a classroom of youngsters. They couldn't have been older than thirteen. Dale focused on one boy in particular and that boy turned out to be his son. Making an example of his pride and joy, he berated him with questions about Columbus's landing in the "New World" and I got to thinking about the word "discover" and "descubrir." The bell rang - or maybe it was something else that marked the end of the class - and time slowed as my vision zoomed to focus on the boy's face. It was, I think, Joel Booth's little brother. His hair was wind-blown and reminded me of a lion's mane. He was rather regal.

I got a telephone call. It was someone doing an impersonation of Joe Hill: "Meehhhhhh!"