12
I get up and look at myself. My frozen self’s pupils are tiny, like pinpricks. This must be the effect of whatever drug she gave me, as her own pupils are the normal black circle one would expect in a well-lit room.
Fleetingly, I note the bandage around my head; it looks as ridiculous as I thought, but that’s not what I care about right this moment. I’d be willing to walk around Times Square bandaged up like a mummy, if that would help me get out of this predicament.
I notice that not only do I feel free from the drug she gave me, but the pain from my wound is also nonexistent, as is always the case in the Quiet.
I walk over to the woman and look through her pockets.
She has a real-looking hospital ID, which is a good sign. She’s an RN named Betty March. That’s encouraging to some
