The World Turned Upside Down

I didn’t sign up for this.

I don’t care if it’s a clichéd line that’s been used a million times over; I literally didn’t sign up for this.

I didn’t want to find myself at the mercy of some magical winged unicorn. I didn’t want to be abused by the very person I’m supposed to protect. I didn’t want to retrace my steps for thirty minutes and relive everything that happened in my first nine hours here. I didn’t want to dig holes in the ground and use leaves as toilet paper — forget unsanitary, it just feels wrong.

But what I want doesn’t matter anymore, otherwise I wouldn’t be standing chest-deep in a small lake, washing myself as best I can without soap, feeling very cold, very exposed and very vulnerable. What matters is the slight possibility that someone, somewhere, might be able to help me get back home. Right now, that means submitting myself to the whims of a pink pony princess, who I’m sure has a habit of finding out what she doesn’t know, and an orange pegasus, who hates herself for rescuing me.

…I can’t believe how comfortable I am thinking that…

Not comfortable in the sense that I enjoy the thought, but in the sense that I don’t feel strongly one way or the other. And it’s not that I’m following orders that gives me pause, but that I’ve already grown used to my situation.

A week ago, I’d probably have dismissed myself as another raving weirdo if I said we’d be going to a fantasy land, with magic and talking ponies with wings that look nothing like ponies but keep calling themselves ponies. Oh, and there are dragons and minotaurs, and a Medusa-chicken that was supposed to turn us to stone, but didn’t. Why? Because, apparently, we’re too resolute for it.

Yeah, good luck explaining that to anyone back home.

I submerge and resurface, shaking my head, wiping my eyes, spitting water from my lips, partly to clear my mind, but mostly to get on with the job. There’s little I can do for my hair without shampoo, except wring it like a tube of toothpaste and hope the grease comes out. As for the rest of my body, I scratch and rub and trust the dirt will peel away with the old skin, like the Romans did in their public baths.

It feels refreshing, to finally dictate when, where, and how wet I get, especially after the drenching I’d received not half an hour ago, and in the storm just two days earlier. Granted, I’m still following orders, but at least this is something I control — something I have a choice in. It’s small, positively miniscule in the big picture, but for once in my short stay here, I have the ability to choose, and I wouldn’t give it up for the world.

Well, maybe the world — I’m not that selfish — but it’s still important to me.

Or doesn’t that saying count anymore? Is it either world now? Both worlds? All the worlds? I don’t need a lecture on interdimensional metaphysics to know there’s no end to that rabbit hole. Science was hard enough when the scientists knew what they were talking about. Who am I to say what’s true and what isn’t when I barely understand it myself, or how and why I’m here at all?

If I keep this up, I swear I’ll be as crazy as Amber thinks I am.

After another thirty minutes, or however long it takes to scrape myself down from head to toe, I stop and inspect my work. My skin has turned a shade pinker, more so in the hairless areas, with streaks of red that sting in some places, but I appear to be cleaner. I’ll know for certain when the colour fades, so long as I don’t trip and fall in the dirt.

Actually, I should’ve asked if she had a towel to spare, because standing in the open for all to see as I wait for the sun to dry me off, doesn’t appeal to me in the slightest.

Then again, I could just slip my clothes back on. So long as I look halfway decent by the time I reach Amber’s — or snobbish, by her standards — I couldn’t care less. They’re due for a wash anyway; what’s the big deal if they get a little dirtier? And from what? Being soaked in fresh, clean water that would eventually dry out?

I’m putting way too much thought into this.

Glancing around to make sure nobody’s watching — not that there would be anyone — I wade to the edge of the lake, then take another, more careful look, and then, tentatively, climb out. The cold water did wonders to soothe my aching leg, but in the breeze, it only makes me shiver, and gives me all the more reason to put on my clothes.

I bet there’s a metaphor in there somewhere, about societal pressures, or the frailty of the human condition, or something deep and meaningful like that.

Whether that’s the case, I don’t give myself to the chance to ponder, preferring instead to slide on my underwear, my trousers, my shirt, and pick up my sneakers with my socks stuffed inside. It’ll be slow going, walking barefoot, making sure I don’t step on anything too unforgiving, but I really can’t stand the feeling of dirt in my shoes. Especially now, when I need all my patience to deal with Amber and her… lack of tact, to put it mildly.

Before I start heading back, I check the ground and my pockets in case I’ve missed something. I still have my phone, my keys and my…

I pull out my wallet and stare at it blankly, then open it up and remind myself what lies inside. Three cards of identification. A business voucher. Minted currency and printed money.

Why didn’t I think of it sooner?

Of course, I can’t be sure if strange marks on paper, plastic and metal would mean anything to either of my new overlords — for all I know, they might cry forgery, or dismiss them as inconsequential — but part of me is left wondering if maybe, just maybe, things could have turned out differently. And if they still can.

I’ll see if I can bring it up this evening, provided Amber is willing to talk. If not, some other time. Or maybe never. Her Royal Highness, on the other hand… although intimidating, despite appearances, seems a little more approachable.

In fact, now that I think about it, she’d be the most likely to have the answers, and the least likely to knock my lights out for asking. So, unless Amber changes her attitude in the next few days, I’d be more than happy to keep her in the dark.

I put my wallet away and take another look around. Oaks, ash, maples, rising and falling as far as the eye can see, thinning their canopy wherever they feel, yielding only to the small lake before me, and the ridge of mountains about an hour’s journey further. Birds sing. A breeze blows. Leaves rustle and the water ripples. And for a moment, I feel content.

Not happy, not relaxed.

Content.

Why, I can’t say. I just do. And I don’t think I want to know why. But if I had to guess, maybe it’s the seeming peace and tranquillity of the whole scene — a quality I’ve never been able to appreciate for some time now. Not deeply, anyway.

With a simple blink, the moment ends, and I turn back and start limping for the house.

I take the path that brought me here, passing the same trees, the same shrubs, the same flowers, dips, bumps, stones, pebbles, puddles, and the small boulder that more or less marks the halfway point. It seems a little out of place, considering it’s the only boulder I’ve seen that didn’t sit on a mountain, but it’s here, and it’s helpful. And it reminds me of one back home.

We used to have a big Siberian husky called Nina, who was always so energetic that simple walks around the neighbourhood just wouldn’t do. Instead, we’d drive out of town for about fifteen minutes and let her loose in the local common, where she’d bound off into the underbrush chasing who knew what, and, thankfully, come back empty-handed.

On the way back to the car, we always made sure to stop by a large, conveniently shaped rock so we could pour some water in for Nina. Water Rock, as it came to be known, was as familiar to me as the cracks in the pavement on the way to school.

…What is it about this world that makes me so homesick? I’ve never been like this before, even on the trip to Vietnam, where we stayed in a bungalow for two weeks in the mountains — not unlike my current abode, come to think of it. Is it because everything is so close, yet so far? That I can recognise trees, plants, tools and furniture, and yet know this is an alternate universe with magic, monsters and magical monsters? An uncanny valley of reality, so to speak?

Maybe I am going crazy. Or maybe I’ll wake up any second and find that I’ve been sleeping in hospital for the last forty-eight hours, after being hit by a car while crossing the road. But that’s just crazy talk; I always look both ways. I’m street smart.

…Why do I get the feeling that’s a name here too?

I descend a shallow embankment and veer around a fallen tree. It seems to be a recent change, and a deliberate one, judging by the marks on the stump. The missing branches, the splinters littering the ground and a deep, clear gash in the trunk tell me that Amber has every intention of using it all as firewood. And probably stress relief. In which case, I might want to take a swing. If she’s willing to show me how.

And then I freeze.

There’s a creature in front of me.

Two creatures, actually. Two rabbits. Sitting upright, hugging each other, staring at me with wide eyes and screaming horror plastered on their faces. But they don’t scream. They’re silent. Still. Petrified. Two little statues locked in a terrified embrace.

I feel hollow. They were definitely not there the last time I came through here, which means unless Amber has a hidden stash of morbid garden gnomes and a terribly cruel sense of humour, Selene was right, and this… thing really should have turned me to stone. It did for these two. And if it happened to them, it can happen to me. I don’t know why it didn’t work before, and I don’t care; I’m not taking a second chance. Which is why, although I feel like I’m being watched, I don’t look around. That would be a very, very bad idea.

But if it can happen to me…

I look up.

The clearing’s not that far.

I lean forward and break into a skipping run, bounding awkwardly between, around and over bushes, logs, rocks and trees. I don’t look back to double check, but I’m pretty sure some of those rocks weren’t there the last time either. “Amber?!” I cry as I tear away from the tree line. “Amber, where are you?!”

I scan the clearing as I wait for her response, but when I hear the faint echo of my voice instead, the silence that follows is unforgivingly sickening.

Without missing a beat, I limp up the hill to her cottage. “Come on, please, answer me, Amber!”

Once again, my echo is the only reply I’m given, and another, more frantic look about the clearing leaves me feeling even more desperate.

“For crying out loud, Amber, where the hell are you?!”

“What?!”

I stop and turn back to the house, then grab my knees and breathe a heavy sigh of relief when I see her peeking around the timber shed.

“I’m right here! You don’t need to be so loud!”

“I thought…”

“What? That I’d left for good?”

“…Something like that.”

“Well, I’m still here. So, what do you want?” Her gaze and her tone suddenly grow as cold as ice. “And what did you do with my pots?”

I almost smack myself. Of all the things to remember, why did I have to forget about them? “Back at the lake,” I say sheepishly.

“Then fetch them.”

I saw that follow-up coming a mile away, but it doesn’t make her demand any less… whatever it’s called. Foreboding? Dreadful? In any case, I gently shake my head. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because… there were these rabbits, and…”

“And…?”

“…I’m scared of rabbits.”

She stares. She blinks. And then she sits down, closes her eyes, and slowly puts two trembling feet to her brows. And she stays like that for a while, shuddering with the effort to rein herself in. “One thing,” she finally says, lowering her forelegs again. “That’s all you had to do — one single, simple, measly chore, and then you’d be done for the day. Go to the lake, fetch water, have a bath, bring back water. Is that really too much to ask?”

“I’m… sorry, Amber—”

“That’s not good enough!” She stomps the ground so hard that I feel a slight tremor. “You’ve done nothing but disrespect and backtalk me the second you got here, and I’ve just about had it! And when I give you one last chance to redeem yourself, doing the most basic, the most menial task I can possibly imagine, you get scared off by a bunch of fluffy bunnies!”

“…What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to say you’ll stop being such a useless, moronic, insubordinate sack of manure, and mean it. But that’ll never happen, will it?”

“I’m trying, Amber.”

“Then try harder! Because if this is your best, I’d hate to see what happens when you deliberately screw up. And Selene grant you mercy if you do.”

At first, I feel hurt, but then I realise whose name that was, and it makes me wonder for a moment if she’d heard last night’s meeting. But why would she wait until now to bring it up? Unless she wasn’t referring to her in the conventional sense, but instead, something a little more… divine. Considering that magic is real here, and I don’t know anything about how it works… is it really so hard to believe that, maybe… being Princess of Love and the Night… isn’t just a title?

She did have hair made of the night sky, after all.

“Now, I’m only going to say this once, so unless you want a black eye, I recommend you listen very carefully.” Amber stands and paces towards me. “You’re going to go back inside, you’re going to sit down, you’re going to shut up, and you’re going to think about what a horrible guest you’ve been. And if I’m not moved to tears by your apology when I get back, I will kick you out the door and use your bag as kindling.”

“Amber, please—”

“That’s Amber Dart to you, dingus!” she snaps, stopping an arm’s length away. “You don’t get to call me that anymore! Now get moving or I’ll get punching!”

I stumble back a step. I wrack my head for a way to salvage this conversation, one-sided as it is, but I’m just too shaken. I feel scared, weak, worthless, powerless, rotten. Absolutely pathetic. A sorry excuse for a human being on a downward slope that’ll only grow steeper. But mostly… I feel abandoned.

Amber turns back and storms into the shed.

“What’re you doing?” I ask feebly, but I already know the answer.

“Fixing your mess,” she grumbles, reappearing with a stone axe tucked under a wing and treating me to a seething scowl. “Might chop a few more logs while I’m at it — do something productive.”

Dread fills me and I limp after her. “Amber, wait.”

“Amber Dart!”

The spite hits me like a slap to the face. “…Amber Dart…” I try again, “can I ask you… one last question?”

She stops in her tracks, and then slowly — painfully so — turns to face me, meeting my gaze with eyes that scream of utter contempt. But she doesn’t say anything. And I can only hope that’s my go-ahead.

“…Can you… reverse… a cockatrice’s stare?”

The words hang in the air, thick and heavy and noxious, like diesel fumes. But her glare doesn’t waver, even for a moment. Almost a full minute passes, and still she doesn’t reply. Then her feet shift, her body turns, her head swings, and she continues down the slope to the forest.

“Amber Dart?”

Her pace never falters.

“Amber Dart, please.”

“I’m not doing this anymore!” she bellows, not bothering to look at me. “I’m sick and tired of all these lies just to feed your own ego, or whatever sick, twisted fantasy you have going on! I never fell for your tricks before, and I’m not starting now! So just leave me alone and—”

“AMBER, PLEASE, JUST ANSWER THE DAMN QUESTION!”

She freezes and shoots back a look that could melt glaciers.

I let go of my shoes and drop to my hands and knees in desperation, groaning and grimacing as my leg bends in a way it isn’t yet ready for. “I’m sorry, Amber, but please…” I beg, voice unsteady, and I’m a little surprised to find an eye welling up. “Please, just give me an answer, and I swear this’ll be the last you hear of it.”

She glances me up and down, clearly enraged… but the longer she stares, the more her discomfort grows. Eventually, her incredulous look returns, if a little more wrathful than usual. And then she gently shakes her head, and slowly turns away, resuming her journey.

“Amber, those rabbits were statues.”

She doesn’t react.

I get back on my feet and chase after her. “Please, Amber. If you go in…”

Still no reply.

I catch up to her and put a hand on her shoulder. “Amber, if you’d just—”

She rears up, wings flinging open, and whips around. And in the split second I have before she swings her foot into my jaw, I see a face of pure, instinctual, unadulterated hate.

I wake up lying on my stomach, cheek pressed against the grass and head aching like it’s been hit with a brick. The arm trapped underneath me rumbles with pins and needles. My teeth hurt. My jaw… isn’t angled right. And I can’t breathe.

I splutter and cough and hack up something phlegmy from behind my tongue, and I have to let it sit in my mouth as I whine and cradle my head from the pain. After about a minute, when the pain finally ebbs away, I prop myself up on my numb elbow and prepare to spit it out. But I stop when I feel something solid, and instead drool it into my hand.

Sitting atop a sticky pool of red saliva… is part of a tooth.

The tip of my upper left canine, to be precise.

I tap the jagged stump with my tongue, testing the nerve, and grunt and flinch when a blunt bolt of pain shoots up from the root.

It’s loose. It won’t come out on its own, but it’ll need some time to settle, so I make a note not to chew on that side for the next week or so, or clench my teeth. But as I recover from the hurtful echoes and stare at the little white fleck in my palm, I can’t help feeling somewhat downcast. Empty. Incomplete. Less… well, me. Because this is damage that can’t be fixed. Can’t be replaced. Or, if it can, I don’t know how.

For a moment, I consider putting it back and hoping it stays, but I quickly realise that it would only end in painful disappointment. Instead, I pick it out with the other hand and rub my palm on the grass, then slip the chip into the small coin pouch in my trouser pocket. It’s not like a fingernail, or a hair; those grow back. A tooth doesn’t. It’s too… precious… to simply throw away.

Precious might be the wrong word — a bit extreme, and… dare I say, famous, in my opinion — but I think it gets the point across. Besides, if there’s even the slightest chance of a magical dentist around these parts, I’ll take it. I just hope I can reach them in time, if at all.

I steel myself for a venomous glower, but when I look up, no one’s there. And my heart sinks, knowing full well where she’s gone, and dreading the silence.

“Anver?” I call with a slur, and don’t try a second time. I have to relocate my jaw first.

With a dismal cringe, I roll onto my back and use my thumb to mark out the empty socket, and hold my chin in the other hand, and begin to push.

Surprisingly, it doesn’t hurt that much, but it is an unnerving sensation, to feel bone shifting under the skin. Even when it pops back in — when it feels like a high-tension wire has snapped inside my skull — I recoil more in shock than in pain.

Rolling it in circles and waggling it from side to side grinds down the kinks, making sure it’ll stay in place, then I sit up and wipe the drool from my mouth as I take another look around. “Amber?!” I shout, a little softer than I’d like because my head still aches, and it’s not the kind to condone loud noises. “Amber, please tell me you didn’t…!”

But although I barely know her, I know her well enough.

I return my gaze to the woods, and it feels like something has changed. It’s not as innocent anymore. It’s ominous. Menacing. But despite my fear and reluctance, I stand back up and stagger back in, trying my best to ignore the sticks and pebbles that prod my feet.

My head’s still dizzy from the blow, and the change in height doesn’t do much to help, but I can’t let something so petty get in my way. I need to find her. I need to show her the statues. And if I still can’t convince her…

What then? Do I drag her out kicking and screaming? Do I sock her one back? Could I? I mean, sure, I’ve been violent before, and so has everyone else — or so I hope — but it always did more harm than good. It’s not who I am anymore. Not who I want to be. Besides, with a right hook like that, I’d hate to find out what she can do in a real fight firsthand.

I’ll figure it out somehow. I have to. I always do.

The fallen tree comes into view, and a stone-headed axe lies on the ground beside it.

I rush over and pick it up, examining it, as if I’m supposed to discover her whereabouts from a simple tool. But it tells me that she left in a hurry — she wouldn’t leave something like this behind unless she really had to. Especially after the roasting she gave me.

Small patches of exposed and overturned earth lead to the south, away from the tree. They start off concentrated, frantic, like someone had tripped and fallen and struggled to gain their footing, then proceed into a bounding stride — a gallop, I suppose — rhythmic, but still desperate. I glance about in case I’ve missed something obvious, then return to the tracks and begin to follow.

Unfortunately, unlike the lake, the ground inside the forest isn’t always as soft, and I often have to stop and search the area for the next section, or retrace my steps and figure out where I’d gone wrong. I’m doing the best I can, but it’s just not enough. I’m taking too long. Every error I make, every second I waste brushing the sticks and stones from my feet, is a moment proving just how laughable I really am.

Who am I kidding? All I know about tracking comes from Hollywood, and yet I’m trying to follow a trail that could be anywhere from five minutes to an hour old. Who do I think I am? Superman? I’m being ridiculous. She wouldn’t do the same for me, would she? So why bother?

…Do I really need to ask?

The tracks lead me to the shade of an old oak, where she appears to have sat down and caught her breath, and perhaps checked if she was still being chased, if she felt like taking the risk. How long she stayed there, I can’t tell, but she started moving again, heading for a steep embankment, and stumbled down the slope. I hobble closer and peer over the edge, and at long last, I finally see Amber.

A statue of Amber, lying on her side, staring up at me with wide, pleading, horrified eyes, ears down, wings flapping, foreleg raised defensively as she tries to scramble away. And prancing around her on a stage of orange feathers, shrieking at her, taunting her, gloating in a successful hunt, is the cockatrice.

The last time we met, I thought I saw embarrassment, but there’s no mistaking that look on its face this time: smug, sadistic pride, without a hint of remorse.

On any other day back home, I’d probably wonder how a beak could stretch into a smirk, but right now, that’s the least of my worries. Amber has been petrified. I need to fix it, fast. And I have a sneaking suspicion that, with the proper leverage, the magician would be more than willing to reveal its secrets.

I don’t have much reason to think that — after all, as far as I remember, the Greeks never found a cure for Medusa’s handiwork — but I’m not going to let it just walk away. Not when I have anything to say about it. The trouble is how to sneak up on it without being turned to stone myself, when my leg doesn’t do stealth very well.

In the myths, or the movies of the myths, the only defence was to use a mirror. What I wouldn’t give to have a working phone again, or to have brought my camera, but they won’t do much good if things get up close and personal.

There’s no time to lose. If I search for another way down, the cockatrice might leave, and it’d be more likely to see me if we’re on the same level.

I take a step down the embankment and silently panic as I slide for a moment, my knee once again bending a little too far. The soil is loose, almost the consistency of a sand dune — a blessing and a curse; it’ll muffle my movements, so long as I don’t make any sounds of my own, but I must tread carefully.

As the cockatrice continues bragging to itself, now perched on one of Amber’s hindlegs and clucking in her face, I slowly, carefully descend. It might not be able to talk, but it’s intelligent, and that’s why, I realise, I think it’s my best chance of reversing the damage. I just can’t afford to mess up now. Not when I have this one chance and one chance only. Not when I’m so close.

And then the slope gives way.

I yelp in surprise as my foot slides with the earth, landing on my back and rolling down the slope, losing the axe as I tumble head over heels. The world spins and shakes, all noise devolving into muted bumps and grunts, until I reach the bottom where I roll to a stop. I shake my head and blink hard a few times, returning my sight to normal, then look up to the statue.

Red eyes, wide and malicious, meet mine. Steadfast, at first, then surprised, then shocked, and then fearful. And then it hops down from its perch and dashes for the undergrowth.

I push off from the ground and leap after it, seizing its tail as I land on my stomach.

It shrieks, startled, then twists around and bares its fangs with a hiss.

I waver.

It takes aim for the hand restraining it and lunges for a bite.

I yank my hand back, taking the tail with it, and hurl the cockatrice at the earthen cliff.

It recovers mid-air, using its wings, and scampers for the shrubs again.

I push off the ground for a second time and tackle it as it passes, then suffer its talons clawing at my shirt, raking down my arms, scratching my cheek as I grapple and wrestle with it until I finally lie on top, binding its feet together and pinning it to the ground.

It tries to bite again, this time for my nose.

I jerk away, put my hand to its throat, and slam it down, hard enough to daze, but not enough to choke.

It shuts its eyes, wriggles, struggles.

“Change her back,” I demand.

It opens its eyes again, looks at me. Fears me.

“Change her back,” I repeat. “Please.”

It hesitates, small, barely noticeable dots of a lighter red darting up and down, left and right. Pupils, I think, scanning me. Measuring me. Just as I’m trying to do the same with it.

Whether it’s searching for a weakness or simply sussing me out, I can’t tell, but I stay where I am, trying not to let my nerves get the better of me. I feel hot and rattled, my knee aches with a vengeance, and the claw marks are beginning to itch. The last thing I need right now is an uncooperative cockatrice who, by all accounts, should have turned me to stone already. I’ll think about the how and the why later — now is the time for diplomacy. With a chicken. “I won’t ask you again,” I warn, leaning a little closer. “Change her back.”

It shrinks as far as it can into the dirt and nods vigorously, and then shuts its eyes once more with an almost pained expression.

A faint, stony crack comes from behind me and glance over my shoulder.

The cockatrice writhes and strains to break free.

I turn back and tighten my grip, “Don’t you think for one second that I’m letting go.”

It slumps, giving up, staring off into nowhere with a sad, defeated look on its face.

I heave myself up in wonky, laboured, agonising motions, taking the cockatrice with me. I adjust my hold on its neck to the nape and release its feet, allowing its tail and talons to drag through the dirt. Despite the increased freedom, it remains limp. What’s the use in escaping, after all? It knows I can overpower it, and it’s probably just as baffled as I am that its stare hadn’t worked. Even as I bend over and retrieve the axe from the foot of the slope and make my way to Amber, it makes no effort to squirm free.

The bully had finally met a bigger fish.

Stone splits and fractures, opened by jagged fissures of pure white light.

Movement returns first, with the subtle sway of hair and feathers as gravity takes over.

Next come the colours, gradually fading in through the grey, from tip to root, revealing the honey, the fire, and the burning blue.

Finally, her chest heaves, a breath is taken, then exhaled, again and again and again, and her eyes, shrunken to the size of grapes, dart about, searching for her pursuer.

Instead, she finds me, with the guilty party dangling miserably in my grasp, and as well as fearful, she becomes confused.

There are so many things I want to say. So many words I want to speak. So many feelings I want to express. But none of them quite sum up what I’m thinking. This isn’t the time or the place for it anyway. “You forgot your axe,” I mutter, throwing it in the dirt between us.

She looks down at the tool, and then back to me, and tries to form words. Tries.

I turn away and start heading east. I’m not in the mood to hear what she has to say — she made herself pretty clear when she knocked the living daylights out of me. If she came out here chop wood and get away from me, so be it. I won’t argue. I’ve had enough arguing for one day.

“Wait.”

My frown deepens, but I keep limping.

“Wait just a minute.”

Grudgingly, I give in, turning back to face her.

She rolls onto her feet and stands up, then picks up the axe, holding it to her chest, and shuffles towards me. The same look of fear and confusion is still plastered on her face, but it’s waning. As she approaches, she glances between me and the cockatrice, obviously a little disturbed. “How’d you…”

I open my mouth to answer with something snide, but a feeling stops me.

A familiar feeling.

An ounce of pressure at the base of my skull.

“What’s wrong?”
I focus on Amber again, staring at her with wide, pleading, horrified eyes. “House,” I whimper. “House, now.”