I dreamed the battle, though it became a haze upon waking.  I do, however, distinctly remember the building that we fought to reach.  And villagers helping us–I remember the woman expelling the dead soldier and the live ammunition.  I also remember the zinging sensations rushing through me in battle, carrying terror with them, and then passing again.  I filled in the hazy parts by writing whatever felt on target.

Once I got in the door, however, my recall becomes more detailed.  I vividly remember Malcolm’s triumphant seizing of the baugette, and the tray of sharp things, and the hand-to-hand battle with Sanzio.  And finally, getting knocked out there to wake up with a shock in this world.

(Please let me reaffirm that the beliefs of my characters do not necessarily reflect my waking views.  I found it exceedingly painful to write Deirdre’s opinions of where God stood on all this; I felt, in fact, repulsed.  But when I became her I believed it all.  I must obey honesty in recording things accurately.)

In a different dream I recall being told point-blank that I would get no weapon because I was too good at improvising.  Story of my life.  Maybe that’s why I’ve had less material advantages than the common American run—I’m too good at improvising; resources go to those who need them more.