I wasn't in a hospital. I was in a room of cold, weeping stone. The walls were stained with the shadows of those who had been there before me. I was strapped into a heavy wooden chair, the leather belts biting into my wrists until the skin turned blue and my fingers felt like ice.
Ahead of me, a small observation window revealed a crowd of faceless silhouettes. I tried to scream, to tell them there had been a mistake, but a heavy, wet sponge was pressed against my head, followed by the crushing weight of a metal cap.
"Any last words, Sarah?" a voice boomed—Thorpe’s voice, but distorted, echoing like it was coming from the bottom of a well.
I looked for Jason in the crowd. I saw him. He wasn't crying. He wasn't even upset. He was holding a silver stopwatch, his thumb hovering over the bu
