Eleven
A smell of nostalgia pierced her nostrils as she slowly tried to open her eyes. It cost her all her strength. It smelled of mushrooms, meat, and herbs—a stew that reminded her of home. Of Area Three. Voices of children rang dully from afar, and the crackling of fire was somewhere close.
Rahab wondered for a moment if she had arrived in afterlife. This would be how she had imagined it in her dreams. Freedom, kids running wildly, and the smell of fresh, homemade stew. But with consciousness came the pain that spread all over her body. Was there this kind of pain among the gods? Did she even believe in these things?
When she could finally gather the strength to open her eyes and move her fingers, she noticed that her right hand was bandaged. Her skin slid across rough linen sheets.
