The light flickering across the grass was hot and red; he was looking at the watery shape of his hand, knotted in the dry grass, blood running down it. The earth below him felt soft and unstable and slid back out from under him, pushing his face towards the ground, pulsing with the blood in his ears.

The dream pinched off into blackness. He woke reluctantly to a nasal voice to find himself lying on warm pavement, the morning sun falling on him. Pigeons perched on him, fluffed up and warm.

He shut his eyes and half dreamed about cold, clear rainwater, rushing gently over the green palms and pines, a sharp relief after the feverish heat of the fire.

Then the nasal voice interrupted it again, and the pigeons were leaping into startled flight, knocking his head with their wings.

"Hey, wake up."

Reluctantly he lifted a wing, fanned his tail feathers, and shifted to roll over.