Bells. Lights. The sound of -- an earthquake? Galloping horses? No -- I'm oriented now. It's monks running through the corridors.
Numbly I crawl out of my futon and fold it. My four roommates do the same. We exchange not a word. They are shadows to me, as I am a shadow to them. Hurried wash, hasty calisthenics, frantic search for my meal bowls . . . what time is it? Ten past 4. No time for tea. Where are my slippers? Number 29; here they are.
Bowing before the main altar, I shuffle to the zendo, the meditation hall. I bow to my cushion, turn slowly clockwise, bow in the opposite direction and arrange myself on the cushion, facing the wall. A monk materializing by the bell strikes it three times. He vanishes. The echo fades. Frogs croak.