A young girl wakes up to find she cannot open her eyes. Her father takes her to a doctor and a psychiatrist, but neither one can help.
Father knocks on the door to wake me up. Hearing no response, he tiptoes into my room bleeding concern in an atmosphere of love. My eyes are shut tight so tight I can scarcely hear him whisper, "Wake up sweetie."
His head is above mine. I feel him looking at me. At a pale, skinny girl. Here is her too- narrow face and mousy brown hair, here her bony chest and underneath, the poor rounded heart. His familiar, beloved daughter.
He shakes me. "Wake up. It's time for school." He speaks louder, more urgently, so I throw down the covers, sit up, yawn and stretch my arms. But my eyes do not obey me. They will not open.
I should be scared, but instead I experience a frightful peace. A wonder as great as resignation. A bell chimes far away, as if a holy Sabbath is descending over me. What does it mean?