I wake up before the gun fires.
That is the thing about dreams — they have a particular cruelty in the timing of them, pulling you out at the exact moment the worst thing is about to happen, leaving you in the dark with your heart going too fast and the image still vivid behind your eyes.
The cage. The bars. The man with the gun and the flat bandit eyes and the particular quality of that stare that said he had done this before and would do it again without particular feeling.
I sit up.
The room is dark. The clock on the nightstand says 6:47 am. I have slept for a little over four hours and my body knows it — there is a heaviness behind my eyes and a thickness in my head that means the sleep was not enough, was not restful, was the kind of sleep that leaves you more tired than the waking that preceded it.
I sit in the dark for a moment and I breathe.
