9 I awaken to groans, growls, and the dull buzz of a generator. I’m on a cot in some sort of large crate. A low-power light hangs in the corner, a red glow seeps through the gaps between slats. I lurch up. Pain burns through my shoulder, and I scream. I’m in a hospital gown; my gunshot wound’s bandaged. An IV in my hand connects to a bag of clear liquid. Maybe Preston dropped me off at the clinic, which must have lost power in the attack, hence the generator. Maybe I’m in a crate because there wasn’t enough room in the building. Maybe that red glow and those growls belong to downed dragons awaiting transport to the Fort Riley dragattoir. I hold on to those maybes as long as I can, but any hope that I’m somewhere normal disintegrates when the wall in front of me swings back on a hinge. I’m in a stadium of a cave filled with reds and their riders. A middle-aged woman steps inside, introduces herself as Gretchen. She takes my pulse, unwinds the bandage around my shoulder. I barely notice, my attention fixed on the surreal world beyond the crate.
