It is late autumn. I'm in Arcata, California, in a Victorian house on Main St., visiting some people. The people invite me to accompany them to a Thanksgiving dinner where meat will be served and marijuana will be used. I decline, preferring to stay at the house by myself.
The first floor of the house is ok. The second floor is pretty shabby and run down.
The third floor is utterly decrepit -- there are no furnishings or walls, there are huge holes in floor (yet there are no holes in the ceiling of the second floor), the windows are boarded up, and what's left of the floor is extensively warped (but no sign of holes in the roof that would allow rain in). It is empty, dark, dusty and stale. There are makeshift barriers of plywood around some of the holes in the floor, yet others gape open and unprotected.
There is a tv with channels that keep moving around, making it hard to find what I am looking for. There are very few channels available in the first place, so I give up.
There is a little kitten in house, too young to be apart from its mother but having an adventure exploring the huge space upstairs. It does not seem heedful of the gaping holes in the floor.
There is a strange man with a flashlight in the house, up on the dilapidated third floor. He does not seem to be part of the household. He seems incapable of making up his mind as to what to do with the flashlight.
I go back downstairs, glad to be away from the creepy third floor. A fire engine and rescue unit go by, their sirens sounding muffled, and I watch from the window as they slowly go past people milling in the dusky street.