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sat with me, listening to the singing stream.

    I woke screaming. The walls of my small room were choking, the weight of my imprisonment closing in—collapsing like a paper box under a heavy boot. The air was stifling and the thin blanket was tangled around my feet. I tried to kick it away, to scramble from its grasp, but every kick and squirm only ensnared me further.
    The door to the room hissed open, light chasing back the shadows. The man—John—entered in a hurry. He had on no shirt, nor glasses, just a pair of small shorts. He crossed the room in three strides, chasing back the demons that haunted the shadows. He crouched over my bed and took me in his arms.
    "Hush, my angel," he said.
    My screaming turned to whimpers, then subsided. The gentle stroke of his thumb on my forehead was soothing, the warmth of his hand on the back of my head firm.
    "Quiet, my sweet. Hush, my angel. It's all right."
    My body sagged into his, all the tension gone. The walls of my prison retreated, back to their familiar white, washed with the light from the hall. The man hugged me to his chest. I could hear the quick beat of his heart.
    "A dream is all. Hush."

    "Why is he so sad?" I asked. I felt bold that day.
    The woman tried to hide her surprise behind a smile. "Would you say he’s sad?"
    "His eyes say so, and the sounds around the words when he speaks.” Even when he seemed happy or excited, there was a certain melancholy underneath it all. "Is it because of Sarah?"
    The woman mouthed the name, rolled it around with her tongue.
    "He calls me that. Sarah. But it's not my name," I said. "Who’s Sarah?"
    A small butterfly, its wings as yellow as a dandelion and just as delicate, settled on a nearby flower.
    "Sarah was… My daughter's name was Sarah. She was an angel."
    "Does he miss her?"
    "Very much."
    "Do you?"
    A tear rolled down the woman's cheek. It clung to her chin for a brief moment, then fell to splash against her hands clasped in her lap.
    "I do."
    The butterfly flew from its perch, fluttering away into the garden.
    "So do I," I said.

    I was woken by the hiss of an opening door. I tried to open my eyes, but they were disabled. He had been working on me again, trying to fix my wings. He always shut off my eyes when doing so.
    A gentle hand grabbed my own. It was papery and dry and reminded me of my grandmama’s. She would hold me by either side of my face and plant wet kisses on my lips.
    In its palm was a small piece of paper—hard and full of tension, as though it had been folded many times. Another papery hand joined the first and folded my fingers around the paper. Hold tight , I knew the person was telling me.
    I felt chapped lips brush against my forehead, the tickle of their whiskers light against my skin. Then the man lay my hand back at my side and walked from the room. The soft sound of silk slippers on the cold floor was the last I heard of him before the door shut. The paper was warm and damp in my sweaty hand. Knowing it must stay hidden, I slipped it into my underwear, just where the elastic waistband dug into my skin.
    I fell asleep wondering what was written on that note.  

    Behind the small oak, near the crook of the stream where the sun never shines. Meet me when dusk falls and find your freedom.

    I sat alone near the described spot as dusk blanketed the garden. I’d been there each day at the desired time. The man with the glasses never questioned my whereabouts as long as I was returned by the time full dark fell over the campus. Sometimes, I left my room at noon and spent my days in the garden; other times, I left near dusk. Seven days passed this way, though I never lost heart.
    But that day, I was startled when the man with the glasses entered the garden. He saw me and came to sit on my bench.
    "Where is she?" I asked. I’d not seen the woman since we last sat in the garden, watching the yellow butterfly and speaking of Sarah. She hadn't met me in the garden nor warded off curious scientists