I dreamt that I was visiting a distant branch of my father’s family, one of whose members I discovered by chance. I think we were somewhere in South America, but I am not sure about that. Much of the dream has faded by the time I woke up, but I remember that I was holding in my arms a naked boy of about eighteen months and talking to him all the time. The weather was balmy and we were strolling through a luscious park. Many relatives were around us. I knew that he could not understand most of what I was saying, but I still kept explaining to him that we belonged to the same family and that we both carried the same last name. And he kept cooing, waving his arms happily, and smiling at me as though he could follow me perfectly well. Only when I woke up, still feeling the delightful infant in my hands, I realized that there was quite a bit that was unusual about him. Roughly half the size of a normal child his age, he was built like a bust. Below his chest there was a plump cube covered with pink, soft, smooth, and warm skin. As I was walking around, I was holding him with both hands by the fleshy base. And none of this struck me as the least bit odd in my dream.