Then she was in the passenger seat of a car. The driver was in shadow, but she could tell it was a man. She wanted to get out of the car—it seemed to be out of control—but it was moving too fast, traveling great distances in a direction she’d never been. Suddenly they came to a house, and she opened the door and was in a tunnel, a long tunnel. From deep in the tunnel, she thought she heard a little baby crying, and then she heard the echoes of the crying and she got very frightened. She started to run, and then the man from the car was behind her, chasing her through deep snow with a gun . . .

The phone rang, jarring Suzanne from her dream and out of immediate danger. She lurched across her bed. “Hello,” she gasped, clearing her sleep-filled throat. “Hello?” she repeated, hearing the overseas hiss.

“Hello?” she heard a male voice cry from deep inside the phone. “Is Suzanne Vale there, please?”

“Who’s calling?” asked Suzanne, with her eyes shut tight to block out the morning sun experience.

“Sven Gahooden,” the accented voice carefully said. “I met her at an est intensive several years ago, and she told me to call her if I should ever—”

“Suzanne is on a verbal fast retreat in New Mexico,” interrupted Suzanne.

“The Insight Chaparral?” cried Sven.

“I think that’s the one,” said Suzanne patiently.

“Well, tell her I just wanted to share with her about a breakthrough I had watching a film of hers in Stockholm,” Sven said.

“I’ll tell her,” said Suzanne in her best let’s-wind-this-up voice.

“And that I’ve quit medical school to work full-time on the Hunger Project,” Sven finished.

“Okay, I’ll tell her,” said Suzanne with some gusto. “Good-bye, Sven.”

“Who is this?” asked Sven politely.

“A friend of Suzanne’s. Ruth Buzzi,” said Suzanne.

“Well, thank you, Ruth.”

“Thank you, Sven. Good-bye.” Suzanne replaced the receiver and shook her head. “Ruth Buzzi,” she thought with disbelief. “Maybe I should go on a verbal fast.”

The storm of sleep had blown her nightgown around her body in such a way that it was cutting off circulation in her left arm. She threw off her blanket as though it was a magic cloak and stood up, preparing to enter the dangerous arena of her day without its much-needed protection.

She untwisted her nightgown, walked into the bathroom, ran some bath water, and moved into the kitchen for some eye-opening orange juice. “A man with a gun,” she thought. “How obtuse.”