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1
SLOAN
It’s not the cold that wakes me.
It’s not the pained screaming of my joints when I try and fail to move.
It’s not the smell of oil and smoke or the sour breeze billowing around me or the tang of blood against my split and swollen lip.
It’s the stupid headache.
I shift and stir through the pain. It hurts bad, but I’ll do anything to keep the tide of blackness from swallowing me back up again. I can’t explain why, but I have this feeling that if I succumb to it, I’ll never make it out a second time around.
As for what the blackness is, per se, I’m not exactly sure, and weirdly enough, I’m not super keen to find out. I just know I’m not in the mood for any of it. Although I can’t quite remember why.
My body groans and bitches, but it does what I want eventually. I finally manage to sit up. As soon as I’m vertical, the headachepunches me in the back of both eyeballs like the world’s angriest hangover.
It’s a full-body headache now, if such a thing is even possible. Every inch of my skin shaking and gray and nauseous andow.
But at least I’m upright. Now, onto the next question—what the hell happened?
I may feel hungover, but I don’t recall drinking. Then again, I don’t recall much of anything, including why I’m lying on the ground in what looks like an abandoned warehouse.
I don’t see my purse or my phone or anything that can explain what the actual fuck is going on. Instead of letting the panic take hold and have me, I ground myself with things I can see.
The floor is concrete and hard, which accounts for the stiffness and pain in my limbs. The air is blowing in through various broken windows. Jagged shards of glass remain in the window frames like fangs. I don’t know what used to happen in this building, but the place is empty now and it stinks like engine oil and old sweat.
I look in the other direction. My head swims and the world pixelates for one stomach-churning second.
Then I seehim.
A man. He’s sitting on a folding chair reading a paper.Why does he look so familiar?I rake through my ruined memory like a plane searching for somewhere to land…
And then a burst of recognition shoots through me, followed by pure relief.
“Anton!”
Once upon a time, he was a friend of my father’s. His best friend, actually. It doesn’t really make sense that he’s the one watching me sleep like he’s on babysitting duty. But I don’t really care, either.
He’s here. That’s what matters. He’s a friend and he can help.
He calmly folds his paper and smiles at me. “Sloanie.” He gets up, kneels next to me, and uncaps a bottle of water. “You look parched. Drink. Slow, though—don’t wanna yak it all up everywhere.”
I’m weak and trembling as he cups my head to tilt the water down my throat. It’s maybe the greatest thing I’ve ever experienced.
Anton pulls it away and I whimper, but he chuckles and wags a finger in my face. “I told you: slow. Too much at once will just upset you. You’ll get some more in a sec.”
I nod mournfully and wipe my lips. “What’s going on?” I finally manage to croak. I sound like a pack-a-day smoker.
Anton’s smile vanishes. “The Bloodhound needs to see you. He’s sending a message.”
The Bloodhound.Ah, yes. Forgot about that fella. His name brings all kinds of things surging back. None of them are pleasant.
“Hasn’t he heard of email? Postal service still works, too. I mean, email is more efficient, but there’s something really thoughtful about writing a letter by hand, y’know? Lost art. No one does it anymore. Shame, really.”
Sometimes, when I’m nervous, I babble. I am apparently nervous. I’ve probably suffered some blunt force trauma to the head, too, so that might also be a factor.
Anton lays his heavy hand on my shoulder. “Sloanie, calm down. He just wants to see you. It’s going to be okay.”
