In the cold mountains. The underground layer was warm and the water had stopped dripping from the ceiling. The wet spot on Catherine’s mattress was concealed by her sleek black hair. She turned to sit still. She raised her head to the ceiling and listened to the wind whistling and the top of the metal crater rustling.

She had been missed with the chance of diving into her mind. Nothing was visible just dark and empty thoughts. She stared at Jackson’s prosthetic tilting slowly to the side about to fall off his face. He caught on to it in a blink of an eye.

      “How long have you been wearing...