The screaming started without permission.
I didn't know I was screaming until I heard it—a sound that didn't sound like me, high and raw and broken, the sound of something that had been trapped for too long. My hands were in my hair, pulling, twisting, trying to hold onto something that kept slipping away.
"I don't know what's real!"
The words tore out of me.
"I don't know what's real—I don't know—I don't—"
The door opened.
Footsteps.
Matt's voice, sharp with concern.
"Bunny!"
He was on the floor beside me, his hands on my shoulders, his eyes searching my face.
"Bunny, look at me. Look at me."
"I don't know what's real—"
"Look at me."
I looked at him. His eyes were grey, or blue, or something in between. They were steady. They were real. They didn't shift or change or dissolve when I tried to hold onto them.
"I'm real."
His voice was calm.
"The floor is real. The bar is real. The door is real. You're in The Lost Hours. You're safe."
"I don't feel safe."
"I know. But you are."
He didn't try to fix me. He didn't tell me to stop screaming or to pull myself together or to be stronger than what I was feeling. He just sat there, his hands on my shoulders, his eyes on my face, and he stayed.
"I remembered something."
My voice was shaking.
"A woman. Sasha. Batch 36. She said Gabriel would discard me. She said he already had."
"Is she real?"
"I don't know."
"Does she feel real?"
"She feels like something. But I don't know if she's real or if I made her up."
"Does it matter?"
"I don't know."
"Then don't worry about it. Not tonight. Tonight, just breathe."
