Becker

Every morning it was the same: dark and dank, cold air; sore muscles, near atrophy; nagging images of now-distant dreams. And then that feeling of something else - an electric, metallic taste from the temples - always, nearly always there. Pull the blanket over head, grabbing the bottom with exposed feet and tucking into a fetal ball. The feeling subsides.

I won't be late today, he thinks. Not for Renderings.

An involuntarily deep breath.

The blanket tugs him awake. 's still dark! Sensei throws his thin blanket onto the empty bunk below. Becker slides down the metal ladder and opens his wall locker. It's too dark to see but Becker knows his sitting robes will be on the floor, the least dirty on top. He pulls the still-tied robe overhead and grabs for a calligraphy brush off the top shelf. He then sprints after Sensei, whose flashlight bobs its way toward the Lodge.