I think one of our neighbours in the building might have died

As I left for work this morning, there were two people in the hallway standing on either side of a thing like a gurney, only without as much padding; and they weren’t paramedics but were dressed as cleaners in full-body suits.

I don’t really know anyone on our floor. There’s a woman I sometimes see coming out of the apartment next door to ours with a dog. I think Andrew talks to her sometimes, as he mentioned a few weeks ago that her daughter starts university this year—he reported this with some relief, as we can hear her enthusiastic but slightly off-key singing through our bedroom wall. If somebody died I hope it wasn’t either of them; but I suppose I ought to feel the same about the rest of the neighbours as well.

Trying to figure out how to ask Andrew tonight if he's heard anything, or if the risk of distressing him is too high. 

Dream Journal

Before heading out this morning, I woke from a dream in which I’d discovered a series of 1930s pulp adventures featuring a man and a woman—I think they were investigative reporters, but possibly something dodgier. At any rate the woman was blonde, petite and incongruously named “Clive Everett.” I kept thinking in the dream that the name seemed familiar, but googling its variant spellings hasn’t yet turned up anyone famous.