John William Waterhouse. The Lady of Shalott. 1888.

Patches of sunlight flashed through the leafy canopy of the trees that whiskey-warm August morning as Bijou emerged from the Land of Nod. She sat up, her nightgown covered in pills and the wet, wooden floor swaying beneath her. Oh, right—the canoe. The festival!

Last night's strawberry-flavored bedtime blunt hadn't been enough to upend Bijou's mission: to make it to Hoi Polloi, the hippest of hippie festivals featuring jam bands, yoga sessions, and tie-dye everything. She set on her journey the prior evening, determined to sail her way to the front of the main stage.

Bijou, the expert seafarer, looked abaft, then a bunch of other nautical directions. Her aberrant sailing had led her somewhere unknown during all that time she was passed out—er, blissfully slumbering. She floated in the middle of a pond. There were some trees and a meadow, and the mountains were over there, doing their thing in the distance. It was all real chill. All that was missing were a couple thousand people, Bob Weir, and maybe a couple of acid tabs.

"What do you think you're doing?" A bewildered voice broke the tranquility of the day's golden, insect-gauzy beginning.

"Dad?" She squinted, seeking the sound. "What're you doing at Hoi Polloi?"

"You're trying to get to that burnout fest in my damn fishing canoe?" Her pop's incredulous form materialized at the edge of the pond, which was starting to look a lot like the amoeba-shaped bog in his backyard. "It's in the center of the desert!"

Bijou groaned and sank down in the boat, burrowing herself in her makeshift mattress of Gypsy Rose tapestries and baja hoodies. Her dad hounded her from the shore, demanding answers to questions about her nonexistent job. She expertly tuned him out and wondered where her bud was. Maybe, just maybe, if it made her think she was getting to the festival, it could also make her think she was already there. She was willing to try.