By BLAINE ROCHE
Staff Writer
The young woman sat on a dining room chair, black hair tied up, messy and bedraggled. Her head sat uncomfortably in her hand as she stared out the kitchen window into the rolling meadow of forget-me-nots, blending into the clear sapphire sky. The warm spring breeze danced across her face, gently tousling her hair and heralding sweet scents of honey and citrus. She deeply inhaled, then exhaled, a deep, tired sigh, then shifted her hand. Her palm was red and tingly, asleep and bored, from her lack of movement and activity for the past few days. Or maybe weeks. For the woman, every hour, minute, and second, all mixed and blended together, like ingredients in soup over a roaring fire.