When I finally broke through, wilting poppies brushed my cheeks. I opened my dream-eyes. I was standing at the edge of my sunlit zone, my feet pillowed by petals, and the sky beat red and hot above me. An arid wind whipped at my hair. Great patches of the field had been uprooted. That was the fabric of my mind, torn and scarred, as if it had been ploughed by some infernal engine.
