We had a hideout inside one of those large sewer tunnels one sees in scenarios such as cartoon mutant turtles hiding underneath New York city. Probably an access tunnel more than a sewer. There was a big brick wall that parted to allow us entry. In parallel, we befriended a pair of younger people (probably 19), and they tended to pop up every now and then as we engaged in clandestine dealings at the mouth of the sewer access tunnel. He may as well have been mist, but she was a brunette of fair skin. One day, as we prepared to open the access tunnel entrance, the 19 year-olds appeared. She wanted to invite us to a concert. She gave us the fictional and forgotten name of the band. When I explained I’d never heard of them (and felt quite out of touch), she explained they’re like distant cousins of Korn. The girl held a small notebook in one hand, a pen in the other, asking “shall we?” silently as she waited for my response. I said, “sure it’ll be fun” (it would not be fun), she jotted it down, and they waved goodbye as they left. Immediately panicked, I convinced myself it was just a dream, they were not real and there was no arrangement. These people couldn’t get to me. I opened my eyes and saw that I was in my real bed in my real room, the faint light of an overcast day kicking in through the blinds. I don’t have to meet her. There is no concert.