(Untitled) by Amy Friedman

Jada blinked her eyes. Once, twice, three times.
The room was as lightless as when she was brought in.
When ago? Hours? Days? Did they blind her? She blinked again.
“I’m not thinking clearly,” she muttered. Her voice sounded rusted.
“Yada,” rasped a voice near her ear.
“Yaah!” She yelled, flinching. The manacles on her wrists and ankles tightened just that little bit more.
Breathe, she said to herself. Just breathe. In, out. In with the good air …
“Who are you?” she exhaled. “Where are we?”
A sound scraped near her head. “Yada,” the voice rasped into her ear.

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