I used to live as if in a dream— if such a thing can be called living. My mind and my heart were surrounded by a blinding night. Fleeting visions came and went and morphed and faded into fantasies. Ephemeral sounds washed through my ears and stained my tongue a sickening yellow. My steps fell away from beneath my knees. The golden yarn connected all but broke apart, reconnected, unraveled; tangled and unleavened, hanging from the ceiling. Unwearable. In my sleep, I tossed and turned with a stomachache, then the hazy twilight melted into dawn. The sun rose from below the horizon, and it lit the yellow walls a deep blood red. It shone through my closed eyes; I squinted at the light—a moment— but only until I felt the warmth on my face: on my eyes, my ears, my lips; on my feet and hands. I opened my pupil and white to the light. I turned and set my feet on solid ground. I took the red yarn waiting patiently next to me, and I cast on anew. I...