Things didn’t make sense for quite some time.
Martia couldn’t see what was going on, which meant the bag was still over her head. She couldn’t move her arms or legs. Did that mean she was tied up? Sometimes she was standing, sometimes lying on her back, sometimes lying on her face. Whatever surface she was on shook randomly like a trampoline in an earthquake. And always, her head ached, a dull throbbing that occasionally became sharp before subsiding again.
And all around her were the noises: chitterings, cackles, screeches, hoots, screams, nothing her woozy mind could make the slightest sense of. Sometimes she was lifted and carried by an army of little hands, sometimes she was thrown around like a sack of all-purpose flour in a commercial kosher bakery, then loaded onto another shaky s
