On instinct, she grabbed the sketchpad and charcoal pencil on the table beside her bunk, then scooted on the bed into a dim streak of light coming in from the porthole. The room was a suffocating mix of hot air and Glimmer’s perfume; she worried she might vomit, but she forced down the pressure in her throat and put the pencil to her sketchpad. Her hands were trembling, making the first few strokes jerky and uneven. Slick with perspiration, her arm stuck to the pad while she drew. But as the lines took shape, her breathing slowed to a normal rate. She swiped her brow with her free hand, not wanting sweat to run into her eyes and obscure her view of the drawing. For days she’d felt something strange happening in her mind. Now, the answers lay in the lines and angles forming on the page. The small round window was over her shoulder, but taking the time to open it for some needed airflow would slow her progress. She noticed the room was empty, and wished the girls had left the door open even a crack—a quick glance up confirmed it was closed tight.
