Lyan sat on a beanbag, his knees level with his shoulders. Quint paced in front of him. He was saying something about Weedly and the Grid, but his voice sounded a mile away.
Lyan blinked. His tongue was cotton and too big in his mouth. Everything in the room was murky shadows and fuzzy lines, someone needed to turn on a light.
Then like an electric shock, he remembered Demo lunging at him, pale vengeful eyes. He recoiled, fingers digging into soft fabric.
Other snapshots followed—a man holding out his hand, telling him to stop. Driving through heat and flame. A needle pricking his neck.
“Where is this?” he gasped. [Read more…]