A child woke wakes up in the dark. She seems to swim up into consciousness as if to a surface which she then breaks through, looking around with her eyes open. At first the darkness implacable. She might have arrived anywhere: all that was certain was her own self. She lies on her side and senses her own salty smell and her warmth. Her knees were pulled up to her skinny chest inside of the cocoon of her nightdress. But as she stares into the darkness familiar forms begin to loom through it: the pale outline of a window, printed by the streetlamp against the curtains; the horizontals on the opposite wall, which were the shelves where she and her brother keep their books and toys. The child knows all these details by heart, though she couldn’t see them in the dark. She was where she always was when she wakes up: in her own bedroom, in her top bunk, her younger brother asleep in the lower one. She struggles to sit up out of the tightly wound nest of sheets and blankets; she was asthmatic and fears not being able to catch her breath. Cold night air strikes her shoulders
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