So in my dream, we were moving. Out of prison. There was a small group of us who had planned an elaborately-timed escape, so that our outside guy would show up with the truck at just the right time when the guards were all somewhere else. He showed up right on cue, and our group started loading boxes onto the truck.
Our group leader was wizened little black man whose right arm was gone below the elbow. I don’t know any such person in waking life.
Then the prison cook wandered in, a pale, skinny young inmate with frizzy almost-red hair. I yanked him out of sight of the guard towers, was about to beat him into unconsciousness, and then instead proposed he join us in escaping. He agreed and started helping load boxes.
Right before I woke up, I recruited another inmate. She was a tall black woman with tribal tattoos on her face and, inexplicably, a longbow. I introduced her to our group and she started loading boxes with us.
I know where the moving motif came from; last weekend I helped a friend with her move. It was a hurried affair because of the last-minute notice she got from her landlord, which reminded us both of the last time I helped her move—when she left her ex-husband, which explains the “breaking out of prison” as well.
The one-armed leader and the tribal warrior, I can’t explain.