Shifting Times

My stomach growls in the pause between my question and their answer. I try to muffle it with my hands, but the cat’s out of the bag, and I don’t get another word in edge-wise before Rafe hoists me into the air and carries me out of the room and down the stairs to the main level of the packhouse.

It’s my first time seeing this area clearly without sneaking through in the middle of the night or clouded with confusion of a rogue attack. I want Rafe to slow down so I can catch my bearings, but I know better than to ask him to do that. The second my stomach growled, I felt his anxiety spike. He’s not going to stop until I’m stuffed with food, barely able to breathe or stand.

All I can do is hold on tight and take in as much of the blurred scenery as possible. And maybe try to memorize the route to the cafeteria. Damn, I really need someone to show me around.

We burst through heavy doors into a large café, and the smell of food hits me like a warm pillow to the face. My stomach protests lou