The young woman in a baseball cap says her name is Dia.
“Dia?” I ask, “meaning day?”
“No,” she says, “it’s spelled D-E-J-A-H.” Someone named Dream gave her the name when she was a baby, she tells me.
“Dream?” I ask.
She gets that painful, patient look on her face, like I have the understanding of a small child. “His name was Jeff,” she explains, “but he woke up and then his name was Dream.”