She’d woken up in a dazed, uncomfortable state enough to know she’d been drugged up. No light pooled through windows, and the room was only lit by one small nightstand lamp that someone had left on its dimmest setting. She knew the room, recognized it even though she knew she shouldn’t. Her memories were from one of her dreams or visions or whatever someone wanted to call them. She’d been in this room many times, except she knew she’d never been here. Only she’d never really met its owner, other than earlier when she’d collapsed, and the many relationships she’d shared with him—decades’ worth of time she’d not really lived—would fade to nothingness now that the fugue had passed. Soon, she wouldn’t remember any of it any more than she would some fleeting images her brain let fade away. Which meant she had very little time to make sure the stranger she’d come to warn actually took heed of her advice. Chelsea darted to her feet, and then wished she hadn’t, as her head pounded like someone had driven a jackhammer into it.
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