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I spend the rest of the afternoon organizing my backpack and getting to know my pricey prison-s***h-cabin.
Pros: the place has fancy-smelling shampoo and a comfy bed.
Cons: the kitchen is stocked with kale and suffering.
There’s some stuff in the fridge that might be fruit, but it’s green and star-shaped. I keep waiting for it to sprout legs and ask for a fight. The mini-library has zero books about demons or battle tactics, so that’s a snore. And the dresser is stocked with plaid skirts, white shirts, and little blue jackets. Just to be sure, I also opened every cabinet. There is definitely no TV.
Dinner arrives at around six. Or, I should say, at six, a guard drops off a tray at my door, rings the bell, and runs for the trees. This is yet another sign that this place is more of a
