The words came from the pillow on the floor. Scaramouche had neither blankets nor a cot, presumably to keep her from creating some sort of evil mattress-based superweapon. “She asked me to tell you that you were almost out of time.” “How did she know?” Socialization was kept to a minimum at Edgewood, but somehow the inmates always kept up on the latest gossip. “Don’t ask me. I just hope the next inmate has better hygiene. Scaramouche would forget to shower for weeks at a time. Do you know what it’s like having that nest of greasy, sweaty hair press down on you every night?” “Out of time.” He turned the phrase over in his thoughts, but before he could figure out the clue, a noise like a T. Rex gargling boulders erupted from his stomach. Oh, gods. Not now. Not here. He froze in place, muscles clenched, but all his strength wasn’t enough to fight against his own body. “Don’t blame this one on me!”
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