68
Miranda struggled up against the familiar feel of drugs.
There were numerous periods when she was young and having an autistic episode that she’d been dosed with one sedative or another. Tante Daniels tapered her off those when she’d become Miranda’s caretaker, but the feeling was familiar.
It wasn’t some smooth emergence from a cocoon of safety that her parents seemed to think.
It was a scary, blurred journey rising through panic of a world gone mad.
Every perception blurred.
Every sound wrong.
Often, the metal taste of blood in her throat where she’d bitten her tongue or the inside of her cheek.
She’d eventually learned that the feeling passed, but she had to ride it out.
This time, she was in a seat.
The firm pressure of a five-point harness comforting.
The tape on her wri
