Camila
The papers are spread across my bed like I’m planning to make a thousand paper flowers for a wedding. They cover the blanket so thickly you can hardly see it between the gaps. Stalking around the mattress, I write hastily on the back of a scrap piece I’ve folded in half.
My notes must make me seem insane. No one could decipher my scribbles, which have been made in increasingly frantic lines. But I need to write to keep track, and also … to believe that what I’m seeing is true.
This can’t be real. It just can’t!
Staring in between my writing and the documents, I finally sink onto the floor in a heap. There’s no denying it. I’ve gone over everything a hundred times—it’s nearly dawn. After the high- octane escape out of the mansion and back again, I’m awake from pure adrenaline.
W
