A/N: Thank you soooo much for your reviews! I'm sorry I disapeared for a while, but I'm making up for it by posting several chapters tonight. Read away.

The kitchen is empty and I sigh as if I haven't been breathing the entire way down here. This is kind of true because I tried to be as quiet as possible when walking past rooms, down halls, and winding staircases. Being lightweight is one of the few advantages of not eating enough, the other one is that you always remember where the kitchen is. It's a survival tactic I guess, but I also like to know where it is in case I actually do muster up the courage to steal something. I thought living with Kim would have softened me up to this. But her sticky fingers apparently didn't leach on tight enough.

I hear something and I instinctively crouch down. The brick floor feels warm against my hands and I almost don't even care what the noise was. I care even less when I see a frying pan roll from behind the counter, spinning before landing upside down. I'm being paranoid; nothing new there.

I sigh, relaxing into a seated position and lean against the counter. The smell of fire lingers in the room and I close my eyes, wanting the odor to remind me of making S'mores in Arizona, not dragons. I want to think of something, anything, other than dragons, because I can feel myself getting sleepier and I don't want another nightmare about those beats. So, I try to focus on something that wouldn't be too horrible to dream about. I try to think about my dad, but when I do it always comes back to, well, to dragons. I try to think about living in Arizona, but my memories are so misty that I can't hold onto one of them long enough. I think about Quinn; his smile, the way his shirt fits him, and that strange look in his eyes. I wish I knew…

There's a loud clanging noise of metal against metal and I sit up. When did I lie down anyway? The real question should be why did I lie down, because I can feel the knots in my back already. There's another noise, a closer one. A fire blazes. I jump to my feet, immediately regretting it when my bad knee turns in. I try to grab on to the countertop when Quinn, who apparently was bent over and the one making all the racket, shoots a hand to my waist and steadies me.

"Whoa," he says as if calming a wild horse.

And I'm brought back to London. After the success of my dad's third book, we were able to afford a few mares. There was a particular speckled brown and black one that was a little more stubborn in being trained. While trying to warm her up, my dad said "whoa" so often that I was convinced that was her name and couldn't be told otherwise.

"You okay?" he asks and I blink as if testing that I'm awake. I'm pretty sure I am, because he looks a lot clearer than he did last night.

"Yeah, thanks," I say, indicating his quick reflexes, wondering why his hand feels so warm. "What were you doing down there?"

"Oh," he starts, and looking down removes his hold, "I was trying to find this pan."

"You mean that one?" I ask, pointing to last night's noise maker.

"How did it get over there?" he seems to question himself as he inspects it and wipes a little dirt off. "What were you doing…on the floor?"

He doesn't look at me; he just turns around as he positions the pan over the fire I saw earlier. Now standing the small blaze looks harmless, not a floating image of death. Quinn clears his throat as if reminding me that he asked a question and I see a bowl of brown mush by his elbow.

"I wanted to be the first one in line for breakfast," I answer casually.

He turns around, smiling. "Well, you're in luck because you will definitely be the first. It's only five thirty."

Five-thirty? I woke up at five-thirty? I woke up at five-thirty and I'm expected to dig all day? I want to go back to sleep.

XXXXX

There's something satisfying about cracking things open, being able to smash something that looks so permanent. I love the feel of the rock breaking underneath my force as I dig. It's probably the only thing I like about this stupid work, because while my arms are strong enough, the rest of me has a hard time keeping up. It may be instinct or bad technique, but the only way I know how to throw the pick down and dig is to try to balance my weight with my legs. And since my dominant leg doesn't appreciate much pressure at all, I tend to get wobbly and easily tired. This usually leads to the frequent breaks Jacqueline was scolding me for; like she can talk.

I give the wall I'm trying to get through a half-hearted strike before I decide to sit down. This in itself is work and I grit my teeth as I brace my weight against a worn rock I haven't gotten to crushing yet. My knee is extremely sore from last night and I trying stretching it out, but this makes it hurt even worse. I shut my eyes, attempting to focus on something else.

"What's wrong?"

Opening my eyes, I see Quinn squatted down to my level in a position I haven't been able to get into since before the attack. He however looks completely at ease, though a little worried, and the thought of him caring brings a twitch to the corner of my mouth in an attempt at a smile. Well, he's also shirtless, sweaty, and looks slightly edible.

"It's just my leg; it's an old injury. I'll be back up in a few minutes," I try to say without straining.

"Can I look at it?"

"I…don't think you want to. It looks pretty gross," I confess.

"I think I can handle it," he jokes reassuringly.

I hesitate for a moment before reluctantly pulling the leg of my baggy pants up to the beginning of my thigh. I try not to wince just looking at it, because I normally try to avoid looking at it at all costs. When I change into the one other outfit I have I never look down, because I know all too well the purpled, bloated mess is still there. Why remind myself? But today it seems more aggravated than usual, veins throbbing up and down as if complaining about my makeshift brick bed.

"Uh," I groan when he lightly touches it.

"Does that hurt?" he asks, and I'm reminded of the doctor who used to jab me in the stomach when I had a belly ache and used the same line. Even though in this instance he's not really causing any pain, it's just those hands of his.

"No, your hands just feel really warm," I mumble.

He raises an eyebrow, understandably not understanding me, but seems reassured and continues his inspection. He places his palm in the underside of my knee and lifts it. This time when I hiss it is out of pain and he stops.

"Sorry," he apologizes with a grimace. "I think you have some torn ligaments and possibly some serious tissue damage."

I nod, pretending like I know what he's talking about, but I think he can tell I'm confused at the point he's trying to make.

"You are in no condition to dig," he explains. "I don't even know why you're down here. You would be much better off…"

I really want to know what he has to say, but at that moment Jacqueline steps up behind him and I'm pretty sure he stops talking because I can almost feel my skin noticeably pale. She has her blonde hair tousled in a mess and she looks as if she hasn't done much work at all. She isn't sweating, breathing heavily, and she isn't even carrying a tool. She may accuse me of being lazy, but I know she only works when she hears someone walk by. Otherwise she sits and gossips with a few other women, and thinking about it now I can remember Quinn's name coming up in their talks. While she liked being in the military, life in our bunk has made her used to doing nothing, and she's really good at it.

"Oh sweetie, it looks really bad today," she coos with a forced expression of sympathy. "Can I get you anything?"

Having spent years with her, I can decode her message in a heartbeat. She doesn't give a crap about my leg, but she wants to seem friendly so I'll introduce her to the guy her friends have been gushing about since we got here; yeah right.

"No, thanks," I answer with an equally fake smile.

There's an incredibly awkward silence and I can almost see Jacqueline shudder. She hates silence.

"Well, I need to get back to work," she says in parting. "Hope you slept well last night."

There's a gleam in her eye as she walks off, shoulders up and head held high. She still walks like a soldier and talks like a witch. I'm glad I don't have to be around her anymore.

"Was that your mum?" Quinn asks, and I almost choke.

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