In the dream, it was the morning of this year's upcoming Grand Sabbat.
As I'm making preparations, Tall Rob comes up to me: beautiful Rob, wet-dream of the Western World, looking just as good as he did when I last saw him 10 years ago.
“Here, I wanted you to have this,” he says in his husky voice, pushing a handful of wadded bills into my hand. “Looking forward.” He smiles and moves off.
I look at the money for a moment, then push it uncounted into my pocket.
Rob has been dead for 10 years.
It is now, as I write this, two moons until the Midwest Tribe of Witches foregathers in immemorial Grand Sabbat.
Already the Ingathering begins.