They stop a few feet away.
A door creaks open.
“Is he awake?” one of them asks.
“Doesn’t matter,” the other replies. “She wants him conscious.”
I open my eyes.
Bright lights overhead slam into my vision.
White.
Too bright.
The room smells like oil, metal, and disinfectant.
The kind of place where machines used to run twenty-four hours a day.
The kind of place where screams wouldn’t carry very far.
The men leave.
The door shuts.
The lock clicks.
I exhale slowly.
Okay.
Inventory.
Ribs.
At least one cracked.
Shoulder.
Angry, but movable.
Head.
Still pounding, but no double vision.
Good.
They didn’t torture me yet.
That’s also information.
This isn’t punishment.
This is preparation.
I lean my head back against the chair and close my eyes for a second.
Laney flashes through my mind.
