She was dreaming of temptation. Specifically, the temptation that crept stealthily into her fingertips every time she put her them near an electrical socket. The temptation that told her to stick her fingers in, as far as they would go, to be connected to that inexorable current, to be part of a winding spark that lit up the world, her house, the lamp beside her. That made her gadgets whirl and hum, that soothed her to sleep in the night with their constant speech.
Out of her dream, she heard a voice. It spoke in a monotone, and even from the haze she could make out its rhythm, clipped, short, sloping sharply downwards at the end of each sentence as if to clip the toenails of the words off and let them fall to the floor. Quickly after this first realization, the first part of an idea, came the feeling that something was not quite right.
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