FRIDAY, I BEGAN TO write. It was important to me, I realised, to get the details right, so it took a while before my hand sent the pen across the page and produced words. Focusing on my first dream, I detailed every inch of the forest, as though the images had somehow been laser-etched into my memory. Time flew by, and my pen still flowed when I heard Peter’s car pull up outside. Engrossed in the importance of my recordings, I’d forgotten everything else normally important to me and hadn’t even prepared dinner.
I ran into the kitchen and hid my writing implements in the cupboard beneath the pouches of microwave rice, as Peter came through the front door. While he paused to remove his boots, I slipped back into the living room, my pulse thrumming at the thought of having to tell him dinner
