He had dreamed so often of his family, his farm. Had they existed? What was real? Stuck as he was, he sometimes wondered if he really was in hell or purgatory. He couldn’t imagine what he’d done to warrant hell, but wouldn’t there be hope in purgatory?
Suddenly, it seemed there might be. Now, small though it was, there was a flicker of a hope of a dream, or a dream of a hope – that, one day, he might be whole again.
How could he sleep when he felt he was just waking, just coming back from the dead?
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