She kicked out against the sheets anew, and sunk into dreams once more, only to awaken again moments later, lying with the sheets half trailing upon the floor, her eyes shut, trying to will herself into dreams, and ultimately failing. This new world was too strange, and the knowledge that May was in the room next door, that she was so close, stirred in Clara a restlessness far greater than her lack of sleep inspired.
She rose, she washed her face, looking at herself in the man’s shaving mirror she had borrowed from Biggs or Wedge—she could not recall which one—the dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose, her grey eyes, her ash blonde hair, and hastily tied her hair back in a tight ponytail with a short piece of string, the kind she imagined might have once been used to bind toge
