Capra's Keyhole

Начало книги

Keenan Capra had been dreaming of running. Not from something, or toward something. Just running.

It was a dream he had often, an exultant dream of the wind in his face and new-mown grass a sweet fragrant blur under his feet, a dream of tirelessly pumping legs and breath deep and easy in his lungs, of laughing with the sheer joy of racing his shadow.

Waking from it was as close to the feeling of stumbling and falling as he would ever get. It was an abrupt crash landing from the fantasy of freedom and effortless motion into the slack and leaden confinement of his body.

He opened his muddy green eyes and yawned, half resenting the dream’s taunting him with things he’d never have, half grateful it allowed him at least a tantalizing, evanescent taste of that impossible pleasure. Sex dreams were the same—except he had better luck at staying asleep through them.

Then Ursula said, “Good morning, sleepyhead.”

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