We were sitting in a darkened apartment. Lauren was curled up in a sofa and watching television with the sound turned all the way down, and I was reading in a different corner of the same room, where there was a bit more light. At some point we started talking about different ways of preparing eggs so that they do not go bad after a long period of time. The Chinese bury them, for instance. I remember feeling a little nauseated by the smell of rotten eggs. “Ranko,” Lauren said suddenly, “someone’s at the door!” She sounded calm, but there was urgency in her voice, as well as suppressed fear. I looked toward the door. Indeed, a man in a raincoat was standing in the door, his silhouette outlined against the light in the corridor outside our apartment. It appeared he paused for a moment to let his sight adjust to the darkness inside. I woke up at once, taking the dream as a warning. Windows were clattering in a strong wind, but it was otherwise quiet. Everything sounded perfectly normal. The smell of rotten eggs was still with me, though.