Twenty
Bettina had one of those dreams she hated. All the vistas opened. Then all the vistas were lost.
Sometimes she stood at the top of a cliff and admired the universe and, before she could own any of that universe, her own feet took her down a narrow path back to an old grass hut she knew was home.
Sometimes she stood on the shores of an ocean, dove in, swam straight into the smallest and most quiet bay, and then got out of the water, not looking back.
This was a new one. She was climbing a mountain. It was hard work, that climbing, and even in her sleep she could feel her body puffing away. It was, as all of these dreams, somewhat lucid and she told herself to breathe more deeply and to enjoy the high air. Bettina reached the top and saw the water from the mountain trickle into a
