21
Jerking my head toward the door, I saw Carver clearly for the first time. At one point in
his life, he had gone through terrible trauma. Perhaps a fire. His skin blotchy red in one part and paper white in another, all with bumps and welts.
Had he been a good person, I would’ve felt bad for him. The carving knife he wielded in his hands demolished that pity.
I scanned the room for something to defend myself with, but there was nothing, and I was still hooked up to an IV. Breaking the IV stand over his head came to mind. I’d just have to take the needle out of my arm. Extreme dizziness followed that thought.
“Don’t bother,” he said, seemingly reading my mind. “I don’t plan on staying long.”
He brought back his arm, aiming his knife at me. Behind him, the door cracked open and a man
