She had been certain she was drinking death. And now, at this moment, she felt nothing. No regret, no pain, no hope, nothing. A dull sort of curiosity, at most. Perhaps she was dead. She tried to move her arms, to stretch. “You can’t move yet,” a voice said, startling her. “You aren’t connected to anything you can move yet.” It was a silky voice, the kind of voice dreamed up to take her away when she practiced yoga. She tried to open her eyes. “You can’t do that either. Be patient.” She wondered what had happened to her, but the disembodied voice didn’t tell her. Something about becoming a robot. Maybe she was really at the end of a yoga workout, in savasana, and she had been dreaming it all. Maybe she was always a robot and she had been dreaming she was in savasana. She was awake enough to recognize that last thought was fucked up.
