Concordia was aware of light seeping through cracks. She fluttered her eyelids, and her vision came into focus. Her head was pounding. She felt something stiff and dried—blood?—along the side of her face. She was also covered in dust from head to foot, as if she had rolled around an exceedingly dusty floor. She sneezed.
“She’s awake,” said a voice.
She tried to get up, but couldn’t. Orienting herself, she saw that she was tied to a hard-backed chair in the middle of what looked to be the inside of an old, rusty railway car. She could see her breath in the cold air.
She looked around. The hated faces of the Durands had turned her way. Concordia was heathenishly gratified to see a number of deep red scratches on Jacques Durand’s pale face.
“We’re running out of time,” Durand whined to hi
