I woke, as it seemed, from a nightmare of being

stretched on the rack, only to sink into another dream

in which I was lying in a strange bed, afraid

to open my eyes for fear of what I might

see.  The smell and texture of the blanket against my

cheek felt wrong, and I was clad, so it seemed,

in prison garb that was certainly not my own.  I

knew that I must still be dreaming, for I had

gone to sleep as usual in my bedroom at home.

My body ached as if I had been stricken with fever.


Paraphrases from the novel The Asylum by John Harwood.