DAWN

Gray light showed through the window, high up. Reflected dimly on the ceiling. He could not see the coming sun, of course. The angle was wrong—too far above him, but he turned his head eagerly towards it, anyway. He rolled his body over as well in the direction the light came from and let himself go into it; just concentrating on breathing in and out, while he imagined the clouds parting and the bright jagged rays breaking through, stretching upward, out against the darkness, and driving it away.

How wonderful—that this should happen without his doing anything. His part was only to watch, to wait, to feel, to know. No matter how dark the night, his heart murmured, light wins—light always wins. Until the very end.

Oh, he had studied physics; he knew about the law of entropy but for now, until the very last, light wins, and he knew it. He knew it!

He took another deep cleansing breath and felt his lungs expand; his ribs move, his shoulders pull back and down. He consciously allowed his lungs to fill to his back, getting that extra space, that extra depth of air.

He stretched his legs slowly against the thin mattress and heard the chain rustle against the blanket like a little creature had slipped under the covers in the night and was now disturbed by his movements.

He shifted again, trying to be heedless of the noise, ignoring it, concentrating only on the light. Day—what day is it? He thought, Tuesday? –No, Wednesday? Yes, yes. Wednesday. Hump day, they call it. Halfway through the workweek—if you work five days a week, of course. And hate your work.

He lifted his arms and ran his hands through his hair, raking it back out of his eyes, combing it in a fashion with his fingers, shaking it out. He had only been awake for moments, but already, like a computer rebooting, his mind was starting to come on line. Ideas, situations, plans were firing through his brain like little electric jolts emerging from the dark. First, control. Always first; then analysis. How did I get here, and what is best to do?

He suddenly leaned over and kissed his own inner arm, then laid his cheek against it and whispered, "It's all right; I love you. It's all right." He wasn't sure why, but he felt it was important. Necessary, in fact. Vital.

And with the movement back, just as his lips closed, he knew it wasn't Wednesday; it's Thursday, it's Thanksgiving! Thanksgiving Day! He laughed. Not loud, just one quick guffaw, more like a sneeze than anything else, that shocked him at the sound. What do I have to be thankful for? The day set aside for thanks.

He felt his eyes start to prickle a bit at the thoughts that rose unbidden: the table, heaped with food, steaming, mounded, passed round hand to hand, red cranberry, orange and green and brown. The colors and scents mingled and swirled before him; his eyes stung. Faces around, across, smiles, laughter. His eyes kept prickling; he blinked hard, and gave out a shuttering sigh from deep within him.

Today he should wake to smells coming from the kitchen, just hints of the glories to come; he should be so loved, cherished, so wanted, so needed, so secure.

No, not good-he opened his eyes again and sought the light. No, must think: blessed, today.! Blessed, how? This body, strong and this mind, clear. Plans to make; work to do; and hope. Hope in others, who love me; who care for me; who want me.

He took another deep breath and sat up. And light, blessed in light.

He picked up the cup of water from the floor beside the cot, held it up in both hands, and raised it before him towards the sun he could not see, but that appeared brilliant and glorious in his mind. Then he lowered it and drank slowly, reverently, as if from a chalice.

Though it wasn't easy to manage with the leg iron around his left ankle, he still rose, never turning away from the light. He imagined himself bathing in it; in it covering his whole body, warm and running in streams down his chest and legs. Reviving him; renewing him.

He pulled his clothing into some rudimentary order, ran his hands back through his hair. Blessed in light, in day. He reached back over, dripped the tip of his finger in the cup, taking the last tiny bit of moisture from the bottom and slowly marked a cross on his chest. Beginning with the hollow at the base of his throat and stretching down across his breastbone. Then left to right across his chest.

He raised his eyes to the light again and took another deep breath.

He heard the door handle turning slowly, but did not even turn his head towards the sound.