It's daytime. Maybe. Probably. For them, at least. It's what the white artificial light of the neons indicates : daytime, time to move around, time to quit the soothing darkness of the night, dreams and demons tangled up in the messy duvet. Out of bed, lambs. Wake up, wake up. Slowly, in silence, bathed and dazzled by the sudden luminosity, the prisoners start to move, every one of them stumbling out their night clumsily as a little drunk, a little high from the freedom sleep provides, temporarily. She stays a moment laying down on her bed, eyes closed, reconnecting her senses with this reality. Still paralysed in her sleepiness, she enjoys deeply the ghostly feeling in her legs and arms - she almost can't feel them at all, like if she runned for hours. She's desensitized, she's so lightweight she could maybe be floating above her bed right now. She likes to think that she's only half present here, half real, when she's like this, eyes closed, her whole body painless, inexistent, empty - with this only movement, independent, involuntary, at the center of her chest, her soul breathing rhythmically, her blood beating her ribs slowly - breathe in, breathe out, breathe in...

But she can't help noticing the sounds around her - she's always so much more focused when she closes her eyes - and these external stimuli achieve to wake her up totally. She can almost see them behind her eyelids: the others, the morning routine, one masticating the awful animal food, without disgust but without satisfaction, one other plunging his hands in the small water current to wash his face, Rachel mumbling or humming a song as always, while she stretches her legs out of bed… Like fallen from a cloud, she's suddenly very conscious of her whole body. The sweaty sensation where the sheets wrapped her skin a little too tight, the air on her feet, how her face remains immobile with her mouth slightly open... Breathe in, breathe out. Her respiration warms up the droplets of sweat on her upper lip. She's thirsty now. She literally rolls out of bed, eyes still closed - she knows exactly how to orientate her gestures blindly in the small cell - until her fingertips meet the small river. Laying on her stomach against the fresh stone of the floor, she cups the water in her hands and drink some refreshing sips.

She frowns, feeling a presence in front of her, and blinks slowly to adapt to the new luminosity. In the next cell, Homer is laying under his bed, with just his jeans on, his naked back against the window. Curled up in a foetal position. His body is gently shaken with light tremors and she can hear a weak sound from his side, like a whisper or a sob. Cautiously, she crosses the little current of water and creep to the glass, then sits against it, her palm touching the place where is Homer's head, her fingertips warm and moist glued to the glass.

- Homer...?

At distance, Rachel look at her briefly - she's stretching her back and legs in the middle of her cell - "Let him alone", she says almost rudely, before adding with a softer tone: "... It's his dreams. It happens sometimes". Her cheek against the glass, Prairie spreads her fingers then strums the window gently around Homer's head, who wrap his own arm around his opposite shoulder, as to hug himself. She still sees the soft movements shaking his body - and she can't help thinking about how little children are crying, these incontrolable gasps that seem to last eternally but always fade away after a time, and then comes the peace, the welcome soothing tiredness...

- Homer.

She keeps caressing the window softly, her fingers playing piano around Homer's head. Maybe he can feel it, not her touch, of course, but her intention to comfort and hold him through his pain. She can't really hear him crying - with all the noises around, the water, the others talking and moving in their cells - but it's almost like she can feel it, inside, like a knot pushing down her diaphragme. She knows about the dreams. She experiences it herself sometimes, when she wakes up soaked of tears and sweat, unable to remember where she is for a moment that seems to last forever, full of pictures and sensations from the past, memories so vivid. She knows how hard it can be to reconnect with their reality and accept to let the dreams fade away, but it's a necessity here for coping and survive.

- Talk to me, please. Where were you…?

She can see Homer's back muscles moving as his fist grabs his own shoulder, in an instinctive attempt to hold himself. His movement is followed by a faint voice, almost a whisper that she guess more than she really hears: "Home". Home. She notices how this simple word gives her goosebumps instantaneously. It's the first time someone dare to say it since she arrived, breaking one of the unspoken rules of their little community. She can't really imagine how is Homer's home, with the little she knows about him and his past, but she can't help visualizing a pretty little house, calm and modest suburbs, with a red door and a simple garden around, flowers and a fruit tree, maybe cherries. But home isn't more a place than the persons who live here, and she asks very softly, cautious: "Were you alone...?"

There is a silence that last some seconds, and she's not sure she have been heard. Then Homer slowly turns his face towards the glass window, over his shoulder. There is no eyes contact between them. His eyes are tired, teary and circled of pink, and he's staring blankly at Prairie's hand, palm pressed against the window. The young woman push her forehead against the fresh glass, closer to him.

- She's here. He's in her arms, at first, then she puts him on the grass...

She can sees it, the woman in the garden, beautiful and luminous in the morning light, their child in her arms. No need to describe it; it's almost like if she can read his mind right now. Homer's hand reach Prairie's hand while he's talking, his fingertips wandering in her palm like if he was drawing something from memory, something he wants to remember forever.

- He is so... He's so big. He looks at me, and starts to walk. I can hear his little voice, his giggles, I can see his smile, he smiles to me, he is so beautiful…

Then suddenly Homer's green eyes plunge into Prairie's ones, and his lips draw an infinitely soft smile, starting at the corner of his mouth then spreading light on all his face. His eyes are still full of dreams and contained tears and he looks exhausted, exhausted but strangely, inexplicably happy.

- My baby boy.

- ... He is alright, whisper Prairie, her vision blurred by the tears.

- I know, I know he is alright. He is alright.

His smile grows wider and wider as he allow himself to cry openly, his warm tears beading on his cheekbones. The young woman giggles softly, a sincere smile answering her lover's one. They're now both sitting face to face, their foreheads touching against the glass window, their hands joined despite the wall separating their cells. It's daytime. Maybe. Probably. For them, at least, the dreams and the demons will stay tangled up in the messy duvet, waiting for them to elaborate another escape plan… In dreams they will always find peace.