I am either on an urban Native American reservation or at a convention with many different peoples. A four-story structure is being assembled behind a common area where we all meet. As the structure goes up, the builders seem to have the proper training to build it. It still looks unsafe.
I pack my bags, trying to figure out how to make all of my things fit into two small pieces of luggage. My roommate has the same problem but with more things to pack.
I take a break and go downstairs into the gift shop. A young Native American asks the shop worker if she can smoke her pipe in the shop. He says no. Another young Native American holds a glass wand as he browses the store. The shopkeeper says “I’m glad you found what you want, but you can’t keep looking around for other things.”
I go outside to share the pipe on the lawn and see that the structure is finished. People walk on it, so I go up to the top floor after sending a prayer up with the pipe. At the top, a woman falls through a walkway piece. She climbs out of the crumbled aluminum piece right before it falls to the ground. It lands next to another damaged piece as some people lay boards over the gap.
Then the whole structure begins to collapse. I stand on the only safe area, and, from the top level, watch helplessly as people fall off and through the dropping pieces. I see three women, one blonde, fall, so I go look over the edge to check on them. They are curled up like bugs on their backs, holding their necks with their hands.
Time passes as I descend the ruin. Not knowing what to do, I call 911.
“A building has collapsed and people need assistance!”
“What address?” the 911 person asks. I don’t know so ask someone. “There isn’t a building registered at that address. We can’t help you.”
I notice two fire trucks are helping the bug women and the see that the first floor is all cars. “But you’re 911. You’re supposed to help no matter what.”
“I see,” she says. “Please hold.”
Left on hold, I eventually hang up. The fire trucks have taken the bug women away.