Book 14: Utterly Useless

Maeve

I’m vibrating. I’m lying on my back, but I’m moving… which is strange. I open my eyes to darkness and an unfamiliar room with gray plastic paneling and… handles fixed to the low ceiling. An incessant rattle makes my ears ring. I squeeze my eyes shut and open them again, expecting to be back in bed in Moonrise, in my room, but I’m…. Oh, shit.

I sit up, whirling toward the man resting on a bench across from me, his arms tucked around his chest and head leaning on the wall by the tiny window overlooking a dark, never-ending forest. He slowly opens his eyes to slits. He’s holding a plastic butter knife, twisting it between his fingers as he looks at me through this thick, dark lashes.

Adrenaline cuts through the power fog weighing me down, but not enough to drag me out of the haze, not yet. I need… I need rest. I need sleep. I need something, something he has, or had. I lick my lips, holding his gaze as I debate my next move, my next words.