And then he hears his ventilator humming. Every five seconds the device on a cart next to his bed pumps air into his lungs. It's another morning and David Jayne is awake, no longer the sturdy fisherman in his dream. Jayne's cheek is deeply creased by a wrinkle from his pillow. He can't move, can't wiggle to a more comfortable spot in the bed.
Sleep comes only in patches.
Pains and itches are willed away. The mind gets good at conning the body, he says. Twelve years ago, Jayne would have dismissed this existence as a living hell. But cocksure notions like those died along with his neuromuscular system. Across from his bed is a photo of the young man in the stream, proudly hoisting a salmon.