Abstract
11:55PM Shhh. Little Diane dreams. Her red hair curls softly across the pillow and strays over her calm, pale face. She is running. Where are you going, Diane? She advances awkwardly, as her legs, too long for her body, become entangled, tripping her as she reaches for the aluminum door. Slender fingers wrap themselves around the smooth handle. They whiten, trapping the blood at the tips, as she strains to open the door. One small branch of light breaks through, widening as she opens it farther. She squints at the brightness of the room. What do you see, Diane? Her face tenses. Large men, their backs to the child, seem barely to speak. Their bodies, uniformly clad in hospital green, bend over a sterile table. They leave silently, some together, others alone. They do not notice Diane trembling in the corner. With an expression of terror, she approaches the table.
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