was wearing a long woolen skirt. Her hands were smaller—chapped and work worn—someone else’s hands.
“I’m dreaming,” she insisted to herself, but it didn’t help.
She stared around the kitchen. The teapot sat on the counter.
“Now what’s that doing there?” asked this other Sierra. “I know I put it away. I know for sure I did.”
Sierra struggled to wake up. It was too intense, this dream. She was in some other woman’s body, not her own. It was sinewy and strong, this body. She felt the heartbeat, the breath going in and out. Felt the weight of long hair, pinned to the back of her head in a loose chignon.
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