DRIP. DRIP. DRIP.
The droplets, like icy flicks of a finger against her skin, were a distant irritant. Her mind was muzzy. Her mouth filled with choking cotton.
She was so cold.
Brita swam upward from the muffled reality of sleep and forced her eyelids to open. Rusty beams high above her head were like conduits for the liquid staining the patch of concrete over her head a darker gray than the rest.
She blinked as another droplet hit her cheek, splashing into her eye. Like a switch flipped from the Off position to full On, she came completely awake. Bolting upright, Brita quickly took stock of her surroundings.
She was in some kind of cellar with moist concrete walls, no windows, and only a single door. It was metal, scarred and covered in rust. High in the door was a small window, the
