My mind circled, refusing to land. Part of me wanted to forget, to stuff it in some locked room in my brain and never look at it again. But it clung to me, heavy and filthy and real. I felt invaded, cracked open in ways I didn’t understand—like something essential had been stripped away. Nothing about what happened in those woods fit any definition of “training.” Not in any universe I could understand.
The words Jessie, Nico, and Robert had said to me afterward echoed back, shaky and stunned. None of us could explain what we’d been through, only that it was bad, and it could have gone even further if someone hadn’t called it off. I didn’t want to imagine how deep the forest would have gone, how much more Anna would have taken from me.
I forced myself out of bed, my legs heavy and unsteady. I stumbled into the bathroom and turned on the tap, splashing water on my face. My reflection stared back. It looked drawn, somehow older, almost brittle. There was a stubborn line between my eyebrows that I hardly noticed before, and something hollow in my eyes I didn’t want to acknowledge. When had I started looking like this?
What is this place doing to me?
I needed to ground myself—do… do something normal. I grabbed my phone and paced back to my room. The urge to hear my parents’ voices suddenly felt desperate, like if I could just talk to them, maybe I could still be myself. Maybe there was a part of my life that hadn’t been swallowed by Anna’s woods, by Fairwell’s rules. The nurses had said they needed rest, but I couldn’t wait. I dialed Beauchamp Hospital, pressing the phone hard to my ear, heart thudding with every ring.
One. Two. Three.
Just let someone pick up.
Four. Five.
Finally, a woman answered.
“I—I’m calling for an update about my parents. Rey and Norine Lockwood,” I managed.
“They are still quarantined,” she replied after barely a beat.
My stomach gave a slow, sickening turn. “And? Has there… been any sign of improvement?”
“They are stable. No symptoms have worsened, but I cannot report clear improvement yet.”
I pressed a fist to my mouth, knuckles white. The words echoed what I’d heard days ago. “Do you… have any idea how long it might take?” I asked, hating the tremor in my voice.
“I would not want to put a time frame on it at this stage,” she said. “It would be meaningless because we do not yet have sufficient experience with their condition.”
Meaningless. The word rang in my head, heavy as a bell. What was time, here? A measurement, a weapon, something that could be bought and sold like everything else?
I had nothing left to say but, “Thank you. I’ll call again in a few days. Please contact me if there’s any change.”
“We will,” she said, her voice already receding.
I set the phone down, my hands suddenly shaking. For a long minute I just sat there, trying to force my breath to slow. Maybe stability was the best I could hope for, but the shadow of that morning’s unfinished ordeal pressed close.
The numbers circled in my head. Ten thousand coins, just for a chance to have them home—more than I’d ever seen in my life, and every day they stayed at Beauchamp, the number ticked higher. The “care” they received felt transactional, mechanical. I tried to believe the nurses cared—tried to picture kindness behind those polished walls—but the longer this went on, the more it felt like my parents were just two more numbers on someone else’s ledger.
Could I trust anyone here not to see them as profit?
I let myself sink back on the bed, the room suddenly too quiet. The longer they stayed there, the longer I was chained to Anna… Dread flickered as I checked my phone for messages, half-expecting Anna’s name to appear with new instructions… noneyet. Jessie, Nico, Robert, all silent. Hayden too, though I had no certainty that he would even text. The world felt strangely suspended, like I was waiting for something to break.
Instead, there was a single new message from someone unexpected.
Tani, please call me when you can. Miranda.
I stared at her name. We’d swapped numbers back in the furnace—just in case, just for news. Now she was reaching out, tonight, of all nights.
I called. Miranda answered on the first ring.
“Tani, how are you?”
“I—” The truth tangled in my throat. I couldn’t give it voice.
She seemed to sense my silence. “Sorry to bother you. But I noticed something strange, and I’ve been trying to figure it out. My friends won’t help. They’re too scared. Would you… Can you meet me at Beldock Cove? Tonight, at 11:30?”
I didn’t know where Beldock Cove was, but Fairwell’s map would tell me soon enough. Miranda’s request echoed through the fog of my exhaustion: help with something risky, tonight, when I could barely hold myself together. Did I really have room for more trouble? Was I being reckless, or just desperate for something—anything—that might shift my luck?
