A HIGH PITCHED WHINE droned on in the distance. The surface Emma was lying on pitched from side to side and, in the distance, buried behind the sound of a building wind, voices rumbled and droned, sounding strangely unconcerned.
Emma fought to break through the layers of fog keeping her confused. She twisted against the unforgiving bonds holding her in place. Her mind told her something was terribly wrong. Her body tried to react. But something held her down. In her mind a small voice called her...the sound of soft sobbing followed.
Cilla?
A tiny form stood in the distance, small fists rubbing a tear-drenched face. She wore a pink dress with cream colored lace at the hem and neckline. It was Cilla’s favorite dress. But Emma’s child was sobbing. And the dress was dirty and torn.
Cilla!
