![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() But my body had become a battlefield - one where I didn't know how to win. I couldn't see it, couldn't hear it, could hardly sense it. Hard wood pressed against me, cold through my pajama shorts and top. I managed to turn my head, and my ear stung instead of my nose breaking. I sprawled, all my muscles going flaccid. Frightened, I grasped my will and forced myself awake. My breath was quick and ragged, and after I emptied the closet, I dropped to the floor and tapped my knuckles on the boards for a secret compartment I knew wasn't there. What in hell? Something was really, really wrong, and instinct sent a pulse of adrenaline thorough me, demanding I wake. And with a jolt I realized I was conscious but not awake. The dream wasn't passively shredding into hard-to-remember bits. With an eerie feeling of disconnection, I watched it happen, even as in my dream I tore the clothes off the rod and threw them to my rumpled bed. The pain broke through my comfortable sleepy haze, and I felt the primitive part of me that never slept coolly measuring my slow gathering of will as I tried to wake up. Hammering my fist against the back of my closet wasn't one of my more pleasant dreams. ![]() I'd like to thank two people who have been with me from almost day one, whose combined efforts and business savvy have been so instrumental in putting me somewhere I never dreamed possible - my editor, Diana Gill, and my agent, Richard Curtis. To the guy who knows that the rose is more beautiful with the thorns still on it ![]()
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