The next thing I know, I stand in a snug underground tunnel lined with skulls, each head held in place with a pair of thigh bones that are folded neatly beneath it. Lincoln stands beside me, as does Hildy. The air is thick with the smell of mold.
“Where are we?” I ask.
“The catacombs of the Wastelands. You’ll see a young version of me come by in a minute. I won’t be able to see you, of course. This is like a replay, not live action.”
A tiny version of Hildy runs down the hallway, all dirty blonde hair in a dirtier white frock. Her mismatched eyes are wild with fear. She cowers behind a pile of skulls, hiding.
The adult-Hildy steps up to her childhood counterpart and stares into her own eyes. “I didn’t want to be trained as a monopsyche.” A muscle twitches by Hildy’s mouth as she speaks
