After a time, or no time at all, I found myself dreaming of a dark-haired debutante trailing a long, tapered white dress across a broad plantation porch. Walking between fluted Roman columns, the girl’s head was tilted downwards with her hands clasped under her chin as if in prayer. A male voice called to her from somewhere near, a beau perhaps, but the girl took no notice. I watched the drama unfold from atop my bedroll, knowing that I was dreaming but unable to distinguish it from reality. The male voice called out for a second time, only I couldn’t make out what he was saying, like I was hearing him underwater. The girl kept walking, never looking up. I wanted to call out to her, but I couldn’t because my mouth was sewn shut, so there I lay, my body motionless as if trapped in ice.
Wri
