![]() ![]() Salvage-chic weaponry sells for a pretty penny these days. I glance at the walls, where some of my finished products hang-the oiled bows and painted arrows barely visible in the darkness. ![]() There’s no way I’m falling back asleep, which means I can work on my latest commission or I can go scavenging. I set the lamp down on my workbench, shoving aside the feathers, glass arrowheads, and scraps of plastic that litter its surface. Briefly, it illuminates a picture of my family before I raise it high enough to see the time on the clock. Grabbing a nearby box of matches, I light an oil lamp. ![]() I disentangle myself and roll out of bed. I touch the scar at the base of my throat as I steady my breathing. I can hear my wall clock clicking away, the pendulum swinging back and forth, back and forth. The sunlight above me grows dim even as I struggle. I try to kick my way back up to the surface, but despite my efforts it moves farther and farther from reach. My bag is wrapped around my ankle and it’s dragging me down, down, down. The sharp bite of it nearly steals my breath. There’s water and fire and … and … and God the pain-the pain, the pain, the pain. The explosion roars through my ears, the force of it knocking me into the water. ![]()
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