Elizabeth Bentley holds out a blue and white china teapot, steam drifting into the air. “No, thank you.” Mrs. Bentley places a delicate teacup onto the saucer in her lap. We’re sitting in Dean’s living room, in my house, though it looks nothing like how I’m used to it. There’s a hunter-green patt...
This can’t be right. I’m supposed to be in the woods. I crawl to my feet, touching those familiar smooth walls, the manual control panel built into the side. My fingers shake against the still warm metal. I’m in another TM. The door slides open. A man in a white lab coat is standing there, his li...