we were in a square concrete room, white light entering from outside through windows without glass in them.  gary and ben were putting a lot of work into the place, cleaning it up, painting the walls of the hallway (which we had helped with).  “when will it be yours?” i asked.  they weren’t sure.  the whole situation still baffled them.  why the old man chose to give sexangary her own post office, they didn’t know.  he liked her, i guess.  i was very happy for them, they were good people and deserved it. my friend and i said our goodbyes to them and we walked out of the building into a field of tall dry grass.  the sunset was amazing.  deep deep red spilling into orange, almost purple where the edges met like oil pastels no one bothered to smooth out. i held up a transparent slide of the exact same scene.  looking at it i felt the familiar sensation; teeth going numb, head feeling light, self moving beyond skin.  “it’s the sun” i told her.  “no,” she said, “it’s the plane.” and i looked up and saw it there in the cerulean sky.  the sunset was so beautiful, but she was right.  it was the plane.  we stared at it, feeling ourselves disassemble and reassemble as we teleported. when we were whole again we were in a subway station.  the tunnel walls had a blue stripe on them, my mind remembered china painted with the same hue and held the imaginary dishes up against it for comparison.  it was a match.  “we’re in China.” i told her.  “let’s go.” we checked our Amazing Race clues for the location of our next task and ran through a field to a house that was a dojo.  we had to crawl through a low hallway to enter.  as we were entering, my friend gave a speech for the cameras about how she’s very particular about the way things are done but i’ve always been so accommodating and she understands how difficult that is because no one really does that in life without getting angry.  we were in first place and the competition was fierce. i was like, “ok, babe, thanks for that but i’m just doing whatever needs to get done and we gotta work now.” the old man sitting at a desk told us that we were to paint a portrait of him.  other teams were kneeling in the square room already.  it was a wooden version of the post office gary had back home.  this man must be the same person who was leaving the post office to them.  he looked like ben kingsley as gandhi. he told us he was sick and not interested in getting treatment.  the paper he gave us had a geometric outline of him, his face just an oval.  we used the red of the sunset to paint his portrait while he injected himself with a poison.  we needed to work fast enough to show our work before he died.  the paint was thick and the brushes wide and dry.  but i knew how to do this.  the other teams were struggling, scratching the pages with short dry strokes and frustrated by stray hairs leaving paint outside of what was intended.  i could feel the anxiety rising in my partner.  “we’ve got this.” i told her, fitting the dip of his chin into the oval with one even stroke.