CHAPTER SEVEN
I tossed and turned and it was the early hours of the morning before I drifted off to sleep. I woke at 6.15, my muscles cramped and sore from sleeping on concrete. The morning light was struggling to make it through the window. Frida was still asleep, facing me now, her blonde hair sticking up at all angles, courtesy of Jackson's Shear Horror Salon. Even in sleep, her eyebrows were drawn together in a slight frown. What was she dreaming for about?
There was so much I wanted to ask her. Who did she play with as a little girl? What was her favourite food? What did she want to be when she grew up? What were her dreams now?
She was right, though, I couldn't make up for the missing years in a few days. And in three days, she'd disappear out of my life again.
Her eyes fluttered
