Connor sat propped up against one of the eggs, Bastian’s cloak wrapped around his shoulders. Connor looked up at him, his eyes bloodshot and eyelids swollen. “How are you?” Bastian asked. He sat down next to his old friend, hands on his knees. He wasn’t sure if he should hug Connor or punch him on the arm like they always did as kids. It had been months and so much had changed, but Connor was still his best friend. Connor eyed him. His lips trembled as they slowly parted. “Who are you?” he asked Bastian, confusion in his eyes. “You don’t recognize me?” Bastian asked. Connor shook his head, his sandy hair plastered in pieces to his head. He looked as if he hadn’t showered in months. Not since he left Hutton’s Bridge. Like Bastian, he had somehow been healed. The wounds from the thrashing he took at Stacia’s hands should have been deep scars, yet his skin was smooth. Dirty, but unharmed. His nails were long with mud caked under them. “Your name is Connor. Does that sound familiar?”
