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fordreams—everything in the universe is made of daisy particles. The daisies come together to form larger particles by interlocking in a chain formation. No one is entirely sure what holds the chains together, but Claire’s advisor imagines them like the daisy garlands that children wear as crowns.
    In theory a daisy chain could pop in and out of existence, just like the individual daisy. In theory your entire body—since every atom in it is nothing but a complex collection of daisies—could also pop in and out of existence.
    â€œIsn’t that amazing?” he asks the crowd.
    On the top of the conference program, Walker draws two flowers and gives them arms and legs and hands to hold. The figures are like cave paintings. Me, man. You, woman. This, love.
    He writes,
Want to be in my chain gang?
and slides the program across his knee to Claire. She smiles and grabs the pen. She doodles a penis on one figure and breasts on the other. They have to avoid eye contact or else they’ll lose it.
    After the lecture, a handful of people gather in a small white room with mahogany tables, where they quietly sip red wine in groups of two and three. Claire’s advisor meanders over with a barely suppressed grin on his face.
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œBrilliant,” Claire says.
    Within only a few seconds, the two of them are lost in daisy revelry and Walker can only nod and smile. “We’re stretching math to the breaking point,” her advisor says, turning to Walker. “It’s almost unmath. One and one aren’t two, but onetyone.” Her advisor has his hand on Claire’s elbow, cupping it, as if proppingit up. If he lets it go, her elbow might go crashing to the floor like a satellite from space. But when he walks away again, at last, Walker is pleased that her elbow stays put at her side.
    â€œHe’s got a thing for you,” Walker says.
    â€œThis again?”
    â€œNot that I can blame him.”
    â€œEven if he did,” she says, “it’s not like I’ve got one for him.”
    On the way home, because of construction on the bridge, they have to take a detour through another neighborhood. Claire knows these streets better than him but, against her advisement, he takes a left turn. The road dead-ends in front of an old farmhouse, its giant gray shutters flapping in the wind like moth wings. It is early summer, perfectly warm, and they have the car windows rolled down. To turn around he backs their Jeep into the driveway, the brakes squealing. Another car has turned onto the street behind them. They pass it on their way back to the main road, a pearly gray Lexus. The driver’s face is obscured by lights across the glass, but Walker can see that he has a military haircut, the gray lines sharp around his ears, the seat belt tight against a white oxford shirt. But his features are blurred. He could be anyone. Even Alan.
    Walker waits until they are back on the main street before asking what he wants to ask. Has she ever wondered if Alan is really out there somewhere? That’s he not just a dream? What if he’s real and dreams he’s married to a woman named Claire?
    â€œVery funny,” she says. “I don’t think so.”
    â€œYou should ask him. What do you normally talk about?”
    â€œThe usual stuff. Books, movies. What to fix for dinner.”
    â€œSo in the dream, you’re definitely still you?”
    â€œWho else would I be?”
    â€œAnyone. A prairie wife, a criminal, whatever. One time I dreamed I was the king of Europe.”
    â€œThere is no king of Europe.”
    â€œRight, but the point is, some people dream about being someone else. And apparently you don’t. You’re you, and Alan is Alan.”
    She shrugs. They’ve reached the house. He parks the car along the curb, lined with tall shapely pear trees, their wilted white blossoms pressed flat into the sidewalk that leads to the front door.