Chapter 23

After I stick my phone in the speaker and turn on my music, I brace myself and bite a hunk off the root and start chewing. It tastes worse than it smells. Truly rancid.

I hock it into my palm and smear it on my face, my ribs, my knuckles. Damn if it doesn’t take the pain away almost immediately, everything except the burn in my mouth.

I go to the sink, rinse and spit about a hundred times, and listen to the bond again.

All better, female.

Female?

Nothing.

Which is good—I don’t need a scavenger in my head.

My skin and muscles grow numb, and my...