Jeanne was cold. She was covered in something heavy, soft, but the warmth did not reach her. She was trapped in her own skin, cold and shivering. Why was she here? She didn’t remember—no, she didn’t want to remember. The fear of memory came back before the memories themselves, and so she strove to think of nothing at all. Instead she listened to the other sounds around her.
There was a radio. She could tell by the tinny, canned voice sparking in and out.
“…an attack on the city hit a vital power plant, cutting power to hundreds of scattered rural villages. The death count has risen by at least three hundred in drops today alone. The pamphlets were a mocking commentary on foreign electric production methods…”
Her father must be here then, bringing up the radio from downstairs. She was in
