It’s pitch black and hot sand in my teeth, the sound of boots pounding behind me. Someone’s on me, hands at my throat. I twist, slam them to the ground, grip tightening until.

A gasp.

Not theirs.

Hers.

My eyes snap open, but it’s all wrong. I’m not in the desert, I’m in our bedroom, the moon spilling pale light across her face. Her terrified face.

My hands are on her throat.

„Jesus Christ“

I rip them back like they’ve been burned, stumbling away from the bed, the horror slamming into me harder than any bullet. She’s coughing, hand at her neck, eyes wide not with hate, but with shock.