All night he’d tossed and turned, plagued by strange dreams. From a narrow alley, a man with sun-bronzed skin and the yellow eyes of a raptor beckoned to him. The alley would provide a welcome shelter from the burning sun, but the man frightened him. Even within the chaotic flicker of his dreams he knew not to follow, that if he got too close, the man would yank him into the shadows and slit his throat.

When he woke, struggling for breath, he’d flung himself off the bed, tearing at his clothing, gasping for air, only to discover that during the night, someone had entered his room. Whoever it was had taken the polished stones from the brass tray on the dressing table and arranged them in neat rows of four by three, in the approximate order of the visual spectrum, beginning with the dark red jasper and ending with the amethyst, glowing violet in the morning light. The sandpiper painting was slightly askew. He’d counted the birds. Only nine. Where was the tenth? Where was the bloody tenth bird? He counted again, but the elusive creature had taken flight.

He squeezed his eyes shut. This infuriating nuthouse was driving him mad. Remaining closed up in his room all day felt impossible now. How could he? Not when he felt a presence near him and heard the whoosh of someone else’s exhaled breath. Outside, the snow was piled up to the windows. What a fate to be buried here alive.

Escape was the only answer. But where? The pool and sauna would be crowded on a day like today, with everyone seeking the warmth and comfort of the pseudo-tropical heat. Saturday. He was sure of it. A minor triumph to know the day of the week. Something to cling to, a shred of sanity. With no sessions taking place in the Movement & Meditation hall, it was the perfect place to hide.

He pulled on his parka and hurried down the path, already cleared of last night’s snowfall. Before entering the pavilion, he glanced back to check that no one had followed him. The meditation room was dark and smelled faintly of oranges. He hesitated before pressing the switch by the door. The fairy lights in the ceiling sprang on and winked at him like stars. From the stack by the wall, he took one of the cushiony mats, stuffed with dried grasses, and stretched out in the middle of the floor. If he squinted, he could pretend he was gazing up at the night sky in summer and breathing in the rarefied air of the high desert.