The music was a continual stream of love and joy and togetherness. It was brotherhood and patriotism and the first sip of a cold drink on a hot day. It was the smell of baby kittens and the feel of bare toes in squishy mud. It was a hot apple pie with cheese and ice cream and being held and rocked and kissed on the forehead. It was running free on a summer’s night and putting nose to cold windowpane on a rainy day. It was cozy and full, fresh and crisp, warm and soft.

It was my music, my personal music. I’d heard the strains of that symphony all my life. It was the haunting echo of that music that encouraged my journey, that led me through the adventures of life. That music had always been with me, I had heard it every time I had ever been alone, but somehow, it was never quite attainable, I’d never quite heard it before, it was never totally mine before.

Before I awakened, I knew I had finally found something worthwhile in my life. The pursuit of that music, attainment of that melody, was to be the driving force for my ambitions. The piece that had been missing from my emotions had been found, and it fit securely into place in my personality.

I had become whole.

As I slowly awoke, the feelings ebbed and flowed. I wanted them to stay with me forever, but could feel them sheeting away as my consciousness arose to the surface. I felt my brow furrow involuntarily—I wanted to stay there, in that place of pleasure—but then I heard a voice, a voice I had heard before, somewhere, sometime, a voice as familiar to me as my own name, clear and melodic, crisp and sensuous. The voice was so near and clear that I could almost visualize the lips that spoke, loudly yet gently, directly into my ear, “It is you, Angelina,” and my heart pounded with joy, my spirits again soared, for the music was within me. I could know this place, could go there whenever I wanted. Peace and happiness flowed through me and I opened my eyes.

The sun was painting the sky to the east. The air was chilly, but I was not cold. The red and orange trees in their September splendor were silent. I stretched, hearing the gravel crunch beneath me. Had I slept on gravel all night? How odd. I sat up, rubbing a sore spot, and saw the body of Earl Foster next to me.

My stomach clenched in horror. What had hap­pened? It looked as though a wild animal had had its way with him during the night. How could I have slept through that? Had I been drugged?