Sometime after Pat Cipollone’s closed-door testimony before the select committee—remember that?!—I dream I’m in a makeshift meeting of my university’s senate, off-campus and ad hoc. We’re all crammed into someone’s living room, mismatched chairs and sofas, pillows on the floor. There is no gentlelady from Wyoming, no without objection or I yield. The dream lacks any filigree of Robert’s Rules.