Chapter Fifty-Three:
Cloey struggled awake like she was surfacing from a coma. She felt punky, hungover, and her head throbbed. Her stomach was wretched and though Cloey had slept like a corpse, she was still haggard and worn. And there was the unquenchable thirst.
She had a hazy recollection of Inga, standing by her bedside the night before with something in her hand; something like a plastic ballpoint pen which Inga held upright, close to her eyes. Cloey tried to focus but found it too difficult and let go of the thought. Maybe it had been a dream.
Then she realized there was something different about the house. It was the cloying silence. The air hung heavy and still, and with a chill, she realized she was all alone. Cloey tried to overcome an unsettling apprehension: Nick must have
