Startled. Awake. Head up. Straining. Off his pillow. Off his pack.
He swears he hears the voice. Yet, in a moment he knows. It's from his head, not his throat. He's been dreaming of the gone time. New Orleans time.
Gazing out, his eyes adjust to the deep dark of the night.
He's on the ledge, in the desert, in the southwest.
The landscape below is barren, with vague shapes only guessed at in the dark. Heavy air, sleepy air tries to pull him back and close his tired eyes. He does not want to return to the dream. He shifts on the hard stone, from his stomach to his side, and gazes out. The far away city still burns in the night.
New Orleans. Might it be burning, too?
The black suburban. New Orleans. Grandfather's death.
Are they connected?
He falls back to dreaming, in spite of his efforts to stay awake, as the far away flashes, the man-made lightning, defile the sky.