"What court is that?" Sol asked politely, his mouth full.
"Umagum," Sally said, a piece of toast sticking out from the side of her mouth. "Don't you know nothin'?"
"Armagon," Dawes corrected. He looked sheepishly at the stranger. "Don't expect Mister—" He cocked an eyebrow. "What's the name?"
"Becker."
"Don't expect Mr. Becker knows anything about Armagon. It's just a dream, you know." He smiled apologetically.
"Dream? You mean this—Armagon is a place you dream about?"
"Yep," Dawes said. He lifted cup to lip. "Great coffee, Ma." He leaned back with a contented sigh. "Dream about it every night. Got so used to the place, I get all confused in the daytime."
Mom said: "I get muddle-headed too, sometimes."
"You mean—" Sol put his napkin in his lap. "You mean you dream about the same place?"
"Sure," Sally piped. "We all go there at night. I'm goin' to the palace again, too."