Deep in the forest where I live are the remains of a granite carriage house built long ago and neglected for half a century. For the past few months, a man I’ve known for years (though not well) has been coming over to help remove brambles and vines from the overgrown walls. Each week, we go into the woods armed with only hand tools, and hands. And while I won’t claim it’s the blind leading the blind, we were both liberal arts majors, so draw what conclusions you will. 

His degree is from Harvard, though, so it’s become a running joke that I only allow Ivy Leaguers to pull poison ivy. As I watch him claw at stubborn roots, I say, “I really learned a lot from Tom Sawyer, but where’s my gold watch?”

“Funny you say that,” he replies and then relates a dream in which he paid twenty