Recording to me

Previously

…I stared at the screen. The windmill was no longer a silhouette on the horizon. It was right in front of me, its blades turning in the light of an approaching spotlight. I typed back: “Tomorrow at 10 a.m. works. I'll send you the press kit in advance.” Then I put down the phone and looked out the window. The night was clear, and the stars seemed closer than usual. I thought of Don Quixote, charging at his windmills. Maybe he wasn't crazy. Maybe he just knew that the only way to make a dream real was to keep moving toward it, no matter how absurd it seemed. I set my alarm for six. Tomorrow, I would tell my story to a stranger. And for the first time, I believed I was ready.