sixteen
She woke slowly and painfully, a little bit at a time, feeling sort of like her insides had been hit with a blowtorch. She could not tell what she was lying on, but it was not shaking or rocking on the murderous air currents, which she took to mean they had landed.
Everything hurt, and she felt strangely misshapen, like a balloon that’s been grossly overinflated and then allowed to go spluttering around the room. Flat-ish. Gross. Possibly covered in spit, thought she was not certain whose.
She tried to roll onto her side, but there were knives in her temples and frogs in her gut, both trying to get out.
A cool, dry hand touched her forehead, and then a fingertip tugged her eyelid up. She jerked away from it.
“Relax,” said the voice attached to the hand. She did, which, she was
