My body feels like someone's buried me in wet cement, on top of every cell in my body pulsing with a low, electric hum.
It isn't painful. It's just… there.
Present.
Like background noise.
I flutter my eyes open, squinting against the dark ceiling. It's definitely morning—there's light peeking around the room-darkening blinds—but no idea what time.
Hell, it could be afternoon.
The air conditioner's on, too. I wonder if someone was smart enough to close the window. They must have, because I can hear the generator running, but it's muffled.
Stretching is a whole process, involving groaning and trying to untangle myself from the sheets, evidence of restless sleep and...
Oh, sweet Goddess.
