My eyes located a young woman, hollowed out. Her cheekbones were too sharp, skin puckered and dry in places where it should have been soft. Her hair plastered to her scalp, sweat and oil making it glisten, her eyes were wide and raw, the whites rimmed pink, sleeplessness fossilized in her face. She gripped a kitchen knife with both hands, knuckles white, fingers trembling.
She lunged before I could speak, a wild thing throwing itself at the shape of survival. I dove aside. Marc wasn't quick enough as I watched the blade open his forearm, and the hot spike of guilt for not being a fraction faster splayed on his face.
Marc hissed and slapped her wrist as she fought like a cornered animal with nails and teeth until his extra slid in and cuffed her hands behind her back with a cord.
