He wakes just after dawn when she is collecting fallen mulberries from the grass, the inked blue fruit that the rain has brought down, glossy blue clots, red, green, white, pink, the flesh sweet with sugar, turning the fingers sticky as it is eaten as though they contained blood, leaving stains on the tongue and hands.
He sits up in the chair, wincing from the stiffness and wrapping the sheet around himself against the mild chill. 'I dreamt there was a city of burning minarets.'
She leans against a tree, pushing back strands of loose hair with one hand. 'Are you sure it's not something you saw in real life? The American bombing in Afghanistan? A photograph in a newspaper?'
He shakes his head. The dragon-ridden days of the planet.