SHE CAN’T WAKE UP. Her head lolls from one side of the pillow to the other, and it’s as if she has no neck muscles—no muscles of any kind. When her eyes do flutter open, flapping like the wings of a wounded moth, the world is blurry and out of focus. Only gradually does she make out the water-stained ceiling, bars crisscrossing the windows, rust-covered trays bearing syringes and scalpels. The mere sight of it all causes her to strain against the leather straps. “Good morning, Sunshine,” a man’s voice says, whiny and high-pitched. Hope’s eyes land on the heavy man in the dark suit. Dr. Gallingham. “And here I thought we’d never see you again,” he says cheerfully, his fingers intertwined across the enormous paunch of his belly. “Wuh um uh huh?” she asks. Why am I here? Her tongue is as thick and heavy as an old boot. “Because we’re not done with you. Because you still haven’t told us where your father is. Because you can run, but you can . . . not . . . hide.”
