When Carol first wakes up, she thinks it must have been a dream. The ringing phone had been distant, muffled as if the landline device had been buried in a bag of something soft like cotton wool - the packing material stuffed so tightly into its bag or box that the seams were almost burst. She’s used to having auditory dreams, sometimes hearing voices and music in the early morning.
She woke once to the clear sound of her daughter calling her name. But it was her Ellen’s voice from years ago. She’s fully grown now, working every minute.
Miles away. Carol’s not seen her since… she doesn’t know when. Time is a watery grey tide these days. It comes and goes beyond all bidding.
Carol shifts, feeling the reassuring bulk of the three giant pillows surrounding her. She doesn’t like space in the bed. She doesn’t like space anywhere. Inching her way, she stands carefully, bowing her head to walk along the narrow tunnel that leads to the hall: a tunnel created with freestanding blocks
