It had not been a good week for Darcy B. Lewis.
There was the busted shoelace on Monday, then the dry cleaners wrecked her favorite sweater on Tuesday,
her local bakery discontinued the little mint-avocado tartlets that were her favorites come Wednesday, Thursday her mother called, and on Friday she was kidnapped. Again.
, she thought to herself. They’d injected her with something that had given her chills, sweats, blurred vision, and intermittent nausea.
It felt like the worst flu bug ever, but - knowing her luck and the week she’d just had - it would probably turn out to be something far, far
. Like the beginning of a zombie virus, or something.
She lay on the floor of her cell, too weak to drag herself to the
-comfy looking cot (note the sarcasm) they had stuck in one corner. She wasn’t sure how much time had passed, probably more than a day but less than a week.
She kept losing time, or maybe her captors were just screwing with her.
It seemed like every time she woke up she was wearing a different hospital gown, but they were always a uniquely off-putting shade of blue.
It had been four gowns and two meals - that she could recall - since she had been kidnapped.
Not for the first time, she wondered if it might not have been a good idea to take Tony up on his offer of a subcutaneous tracker.
In the end, the cons had outweighed the pros, but she was reevaluating her stance now.
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