He wasn’t awake; he was sure of it. Everything was black and dark, and there was pain. That meant he wasn’t dead, since dead men felt no pain. He couldn’t move though, couldn’t throw off the webs of bewilderment and spears of red-hot pain that coursed through and around him. Then a question of frightening urgency filled his mind: who am I? Confusion gripped him and nothing had ever seemed as frightening as the loss of identity with no way of regaining it or breaking free. “I’m sorry, Master. I’ll try again,” had said his little boyish voice, filled with shame and weariness. “What is it?” “What?”