She tries. She really tries. She cries out, willing herself to wake.

Nothing. The world remains. Louis cocks his head. "Still think it's a dream?"

"Fuck you."

"Such a dirty mouth. It's why you'll be an unfit mother."

"Fuck your mother."

"You're like that girl in that movie, the one where she gets possessed by the devil? You know the one. All that vomit. All that angry rage slagging our blessed Lord and Savior."

Miriam pulls again at the stirrups. Sweat beads on her brow. She grunts in frustration, anger, fear. Why can't I wake up? Wake up, you stupid girl, wake up.

"We're going to have to stitch you up," Louis says. He leers toward the exposed space between her legs and licks his lips. "Tie it shut, nice and tight."

"You're not Louis. You're just a phantom in my head. You're my own brain, toying with me."

"It's Doctor Louis, I'll have you know. Respect the credentials." He pulls out a needle. It's huge, like a crotchet needle. Like a baby's finger. He sticks out his tongue to concentrate and, even blind, is able to thread a dirty, fraying cord through the eye of the fat needle. "You don't even know my last name, do you?"

"You don't have a last name," she huffs, trying to free her hands. "You're a figment. A fragment. I don't care about you. I don't care about ghosts and goblins."

"You feel guilty. That's okay. I'd feel guilty, too. We can talk about that, but before we do, I really need to stitch up your naughty place. That's medical lingo, by the way: naughty place. But I know you're fond of certain words, so, let me rephrase that: I need to sew shut this stinking, worm-choked cunt of yours so that you can never have another baby, because the last thing the world needs is for you to breed true once more and crack your whore's pelvis giving birth to whatever little godless maggot decides to wriggle free from your scabbed womb."

Miriam is horrified – horrified at the words coming out of his (her?) mouth. She wants to say something, but her voice is just a squeak, a hoarse squeal. She tries to say no, tries to reach out and stop him –

But his head dips down and the fat needle pierces her labia, and she feels a gush of blood and she tries to scream but no scream will come –

Long highway – tapering to nothing in one direction, and tapering to nothing in another. Gray, blasted, pale, cracked. Desert on both sides: red earth, pale scrub. Blue sky above, but far off a rolling thunderhead like an anvil tumbles end over end over end.

Miriam stands on the shoulder of the highway. She catches her breath, as if she just emerged from the icy waters of a winter lake.

She feels her thighs, her crotch. No pain. No blood.

"Jesus," she gasps.

"Not quite," a voice from behind her.