14
An angry woman with a pointy face and sallow skin peered through the window.
“Is she human?” I whispered.
“I can only see her face,” Elizabeth said. “So, probably?”
The woman looked down toward the lock on the door.
“What do we do?” Elizabeth gripped my hand.
“Something stupid.” I turned toward the back wall. “Portunda.”
The wall trembled as a door formed where one never should have been.
The lock beeped behind us as Elizabeth shoved the concrete door open.
“What have you done?” the pointy lady shouted, like Elizabeth and I were vandals.
The part of me that was emotionally exhausted and had forgotten how logic works wanted to ask the lady what non-magical explanation she could come up with for a random door forming. But Elizabeth and I had already darted through the new door a
