Sometimes he dreamt of his own mother. She was sitting reading him a bedtime story, but whenever he looked at her she turned into Mrs Glass. He awoke just as the first shafts of sunlight lanced over the treetops and in through the open sides of the tower. He could see squares of pinkish-grey sky framed by the corner supports. He groaned. His body always felt worse first thing in the morning. He was aware of every bruise, scrape and cut. His head throbbed. His ribs ached all over. He was cold and damp and more tired than when he’d gone to sleep. But he was alive, and with a bit of stretching and light exercise things wouldn’t seem so bad. He forced himself upright and rolled his shoulders, loosening his stiff neck. Precious was still sleeping, her head resting on her forearm, her face squashed out of shape. He let her sleep on, and sat with his legs dangling over the edge of the platform watching the new day form itself. It was almost as if he was still dreaming. There was something so unreal about the place.
