Her mouth was dry, gummy with old blood. She must have bitten her tongue, and unless her mattress had suddenly turned to stone, she’d managed to knock herself out and was lying flat on the floor. Of all the stupid things to do, bashing her head hard enough to lose consciousness had to be one of the clumsiest. She ran her hands out to her sides. Cool, polished woodgrain took shape under her searching fingers. Interesting. None of the floors felt like that. She cracked an eye open and peered to one side: the honey color of oak met her vision. Kitchen table? Yep. Kitchen table. She’d somehow managed to knock herself out and land on the table? Not bloody likely. She scoured her memory. A void blocked her way. She panicked, fearing she’d lost her memories for the second time in her life . . . but she remembered that, so her memory still functioned. Something else then. Something so frightening her mind didn’t want to remember. She could deal with frightening. Fear was better than the nothingness of vanished memories.
