My dream is always the same. I am standing in a large room with a large spinning wheel, a pile of gold beside it. A man is in front of me, although his face and voice are obscure and shadowy. His lips meet mine and I feel joyful, because I can sense that he loves me. And, despite the shadows, I can feel that I love him. And then I wake up, often in a cold sweat, reaching out for someone who exists only in my mind. I am insensible of years, months, weeks and days. I have no idea how long I have been kept in this cell. The only two constants in my life are the terrible food, and the woman who comes daily to stare at me and smirk evilly. Some instinct within me tells me to lie the few times she tries to talk to me about my former life. I know my name is Isabelle Christine French, because I remember my father, Mo, committing me here when I told him about my recurring dream. And I know that the woman who stares at me daily was behind my imprisonment because I recall her giving my father money to open up a flower shop. I start, jolted from my reverie when the door opens and the janitor, Malcolm, comes inside to clean my cell for me. I sit in the corner and watch him work. He's the only human contact I have in this hellhole, and I am grateful for that. He glances at me and smiles, cautiously friendly with me. "Good morning, Belle. Did you sleep well?" he asks as I shake my head and look away, haunted by my dream. Malcolm is the only person I've told my dream to, and only because one night, he heard me screaming in my sleep, begging for the man in my dream to not leave me. He smiles sympathetically. "That dream again, eh?" he asks, his Scottish accent thick as ever. I nod and look away from him to the barred window and the muted light from outside, wondering if I'll ever be free of this place. I glance at Malcolm and decide to ask a personal question of him, reasoning that the least he can do is refuse to answer it. "Do you have a brother, Malcolm?" I ask, keeping my voice to a whisper, just in case the woman is nearby. He stops mopping the floor and gives me a penetrating look, making me blush. "What makes you ask that, Belle?" he asks softly, his voice hard. I flinch and look away from him, embarrassed. "I don't know, really. It's just that you seem lonely, being so far from Scotland, and I thought perhaps you have family here." I say apologetically as he wrings the mop out and turns his back to me, saying stiffly, "I did have a brother, once. Back there, in Scotland." I nod and ask softly, "What happened between you?" He turns on me and shakes his head, his eyes fierce. "He became a different person. If you'll excuse me, I have to mop the hallway. Good day, Belle." I stop him with a hand on his arm, asking quietly, "Is he still alive, then?" He glares at me and says fiercely, " Whether he is or isn't, I fail to see how it's any of your concern." I shrink back from the anger in his face and sit on my bed as he leaves.