CIARAN
I woke up with a jolt.
Not from a nightmare of mine, but from the voice of hers. Eleanor.
Her breathing was short, uncertain.
I got up from my cot to see her hunched at the small desk, hair cascading down her back like a curtain, the tip of a pen moving spasmodically over paper.
Sheets littered the floor—crumpled, ripped, abandoned. Her hand was shaking as she wrote, jaw tight, as if struggling with the ink itself.
The string yanked hard, hauling me up before I'd even thought about it.
"What are you doing?" My voice was low, rasping with sleep.
She jumped, nearly snapping the pen in two. When she turned to look at me, her eyes were wide and haunted.
For a moment, I thought she might actually speak—her lips parted, trembling—but she thrust the paper at me instead.
Three
