She was in a room. Hers? No, not just hers. Shared, with the man with no face. His clothes were rumpled in the corner, ready to be taken downstairs and washed. Afternoon light streamed through a window. It looked out onto a suburban street, lined with boring cars and neat houses.
This is a dream, she thought. I'm dreaming again.
She was searching for something, a travel adaptor. She was late. Why was she always late? She couldn't find one in her stuff, and so she was in one of his drawers, hunting, desperate. He was shouting to her from downstairs, something about her taxi being there.
Under his underwear was a wash bag, what he took when he was away on business. I wonder if there's one in there, she thought.
Wait, I recognise this top, she thought. This chest of drawers. This is me, in a way that no synthetic body or virtual reality is.
She wanted to look in the mirror, see herself, answer her questions about her identity, but she couldn't: the dream played itself on implacable rails, rolling forward, unstoppable as an oil tanker.
She zipped open the wash bag, and found a thing that was not supposed to be there.