A scream still echoed in Samantha's ears as her eyes opened. She found herself not in a dark cave, but a shabby motel room. She conducted a brief inventory: cheeks small, hair straight, stomach flat, and breasts-she had breasts! "Oh thank God," she said.
She got up off the stained carpet of the motel room and stumbled over to the sink. When she reached out to turn on the faucet, she paused a moment to stare at her long, slim fingers. She wanted to kiss each one. "Get a hold of yourself," she said. She turned the faucet and splashed lukewarm water onto her face.
A nightmare. It had all been a nightmare. She couldn't remember ever having such a vivid dream, but then again she couldn't remember anything.
She fumbled for the light switch, jumping back when the lights came on and she saw her face. Not three or ten or even seventeen, but much older. The tired, worn face of a middle-aged woman. She touched the lines at the corner of her eyes and lips, the bags beneath her eyes, and the gray hairs at her temples. "Is this me?" she wondered. Or perhaps this was the dream and she would wake up as a teenager or an old woman.
"Get a hold of yourself," she said again. "This is ridiculous. I'm not dreaming. I'm-" Who the hell was she? That was the place to begin. Establish the facts.
She looked around the motel room for identification. She found a suitcase on the foot of the bed with no identification tags on the outside. Inside was a wrinkled pile of clothes, a toothbrush, and a gun. She picked up the snub-nosed revolver and without thinking opened the chamber. She dropped the gun when she saw the bullets inside.
She stepped away from the suitcase, bumping against a set of drawers. Her search of the drawers turned up only a telephone book for the greater Savannah area and a Bible. I must not have been here long, she thought. A search of the nightstands revealed a few ads for pizza restaurants and the channel listing for the television. She checked underneath the bed and in the closet without finding anything.
Her stomach began twisting into knots. So far she knew only that she was a middle-aged woman in Savannah, Georgia who carried a gun in her suitcase. There's probably a good reason for that, she thought. The knots tightened and bile started to make its way up her throat.
She dashed into the bathroom, spitting a blob of yellow bile into the toilet. I must not have eaten recently, she thought, grateful for any clue that might help. She flushed the toilet and prepared to make another sweep of the room when she saw a handbag dangling from the back of the door.