The crack in the ceiling must have been staring at me for a while.
Bony fingers rubbed across my face: they were my fingers. They burned as they touched my heating face, and with all my might I pulled them off. I turned my eyes to my rug, something new to look at. Strangely, the horse weave on the rug seemed to speak to me.
I saw the pile of paper on my desk, I saw the pen, and I saw the horse on the blue rug. The horse moved, and I was moving on it. The crack opened, creating an oasis of sand to come pouring in. Cactuses sprouted in an instant, my pale, green painted walls became a bright yellow, and instead of the cool air that should have been blowing on me from my fan, I felt a dry wind blow across the room.
Lee Cot, western cowboy, ran on his horse through the barren dessert. His house and life were behind him; he was moving toward danger. He could smell it.
But in front of him were a group of horses, and the leader of the pack seemed to be flat with a blue background. This was not Arizona. Not what it had appeared to be before this day.