I feel funny. My head feels light. My body feels heavy. Did I eat sand? My mouth feels gritty and dry. I want water. My back's tingling. It feels like there are thousands of bubbles popping beneath my skin. I want to roll over; I've been lying still too long. But why have I been laying still? Why am I lying down? I thought I was working. I was working at the motel. I try prying the memories free, but everything's a distorted mess. I know, though, I was working. Or, maybe I had worked? Well, wait, yes, I had worked, the night was over. We filled up. I had left. But, no, I hadn't left. I saw someone. I was talking to someone.
I open my eyes to a gray scene. Everything was gray. The ceiling was gray, the walls were gray. I don't know this place. This isn't the motel, this isn't home. Where am I? I look closer, there are holes and cracks and textures. It's cement. Was I in jail? What did I do to land myself in a cell? I try to break this dizzy spell, push it from my mind to focus. I gain a little leeway; my thoughts are becoming clearer little by little. I hadn't done anything wrong. Something else is going on here or there must have been a mistake. I have to remember what's going on.
There's noise in the background as colorful lights flicker against the wall. The noise is fuzzy but its message I hear clearly. My head rolls quickly to the sound as my heart stumbles. There's a small television sitting on a blue milk crate against a cement wall. The news channel is on with important breaking news. Its broadcast is only a sliver of what bothers me.
There, sitting on a metal chair just outside my cement room, is a man in dark clothes. A man I don't know.
"…a report of a missing young girl, Abigail Wendover, about sixteen years old, last seen in front of The Whisper Inn…" The reporter's voice fell lost against the sound of my pulse pounding in my ear.