I was telling Swamp Rabbit about a dream in which I’d been hired as a helicopter pilot. The copter was a small, square-shaped thing with rotors laying next to it that I would have to attach to get it airborne. Would-be passengers were lined up for blocks, waiting for me to get them off the ground and away from some disaster that was about to happen.

The problem was that I had bluffed my way into the job and knew nothing about copters. The would-be passengers cursed me as it became clear I was clueless, so I dashed off and came back with two large bags of ice that I hoped would appease them. They were chasing me and vowing to tear me apart. Then I woke up.

“OK, let me guess how I’m supposed to inter-pit that,” Swamp Rabbit said. “The election is in less than six weeks. Trump is saying he might not accept the results if he ain’t the winner. He nominated an ultra-rightwing religious kook to replace Ruth Bader Ginsburg before she was even in her grave to make sure he’ll win if the Supreme Court gets to decide the election. His Senate flunkies are chompin’ at the bit to confirm the kook.”

He continued: “This is one of them constitutional crises, the biggest in the history of electing presidents. I’m guessin’ your dream is about how you’re scared Trump might get to be dictator, like he’s been pushing for since he moved into the White House.”

“Sound about right,” I said. “I’m worried it might be too late for the peeps to escape disaster. It was three years before the media would call Trump a liar, and they still won’t call him a would-be dictator. And almost half the country seems to be cool with the idea of him taking over.”

“But what about the ice in your dream?” Swamp Rabbit asked. “And how come it was your fault that the peeps couldn’t get away?”

“I don’t know,” I confessed. “I was never a Trump fan, and I didn’t vote for Jill Stein in 2016, so there’s no reason for me to feel guilty. Maybe I should call in professional help.”