Tomorrow rarely comes how we think it will. Time, the ultimate curative, palliative, and anesthetic numbs us in repetitive waves. But tomorrow comes.

Before tomorrow is today, but before that yesterday. That’s when he came. He was wretched, loathsome, and detestable, but if he does as he says I will love him all the same. His hands, though smooth, treated my weak body with such roughness. He prodded every inch of, poking back to nonexistence the last shreds of my dignity. But in the end, yesterday, he said he could affect a cure.

Today I dream. The dreams are the same, me, my horse, my brother, the lake. But they are more vivid and real. They do not leave the sour tinge of despair when they melt away into another day of the same slim chances. They are coming. My dreams are coming tomorrow.

Pain also comes tomorrow. He promised, the bastard. The cure, he says, may work or it may not. But, he asks, what other hope do you have. But pain, pain he could promise. So I dream of pain and smile.