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Collins didn't really believe Mimi when she said that she'd seen Angel after her little trip 'over the moon.' It's not that he doesn't believe in dreams, but a stoned-to-the-gills Mimi is a less than reliable source, as fond of her as he is.
It's been a hell of a day. The kids in his class could give two fucks about the war in the Gulf and roll their eyes when he tells them that the country's marched into the situation and violated due process. He eats and curls up in the hallucinatory light of a street sign.
When he sleeps that night, he actually does see her - and damn, she does look good, better than even the first time he'd seen her.
She's pissed off, which surprises him. "Honey, you've got to get over me." Collins didn't say anything - shit, what could he say to that? "If you're not happy, I'm not resting in peace." She crosses her arms over her chest and demands, "concentrate on getting to Santa Fe. Go open that cafe. Do it for me, baby."
Collins reaches out to touch her, and abruptly felt the cool tease of air against his palm. He wakes up feeling better, lighter.
Two days later, he packs his runsack, quits his job, and bums a ride to the southwest. It's what Angel would've wanted.
But instead of a cafe, he builds a school of terra cotta and disseminates ideas. And there - in his small way - he changes the world.