?????? - TMR, Minho

Two knocks on the pole that my hammock is attached to.

"Morning, Pua."

Blindly, I throw a pillow at him.

It wouldn't matter if I had thrown it perfectly. He's not actually there, so it will never hit him.

"Rude," he comments, tossing the pillow back in my face. "So, how about we—"

The second I open my eyes, his voice stops. I look around: he's nowhere to be seen. The pillow is lying on the ground. He never threw it back because he. is. not. real.

All I sense is the smell of eggs. Fry's probably already making breakfast. The Runners will be up soon. Them, Nick, and Alby are the first ones to eat.

Normally, I would've taken this as extra quality time with Minho.

That normally doesn't really feel normal at this point, though. It's been weeks since Minho lost his memories. Or maybe it's been months. I can't tell anymore. Time moves differently when the voices in your head grow louder than the voices of the people outside.

I try to catch some more sleep, but when I close my eyes, the memories flicker—fragments of screams, of blood, of eyes staring up at me, unblinking. Sometimes I think they're mine. Other times, I know they're not. And when the nightmares get too loud, I stare at the ceiling of the Homestead and count the cracks, trying to find a pattern, something that makes sense.

"Morning, Zee." This voice is different. Less teasing but also less comforting. "I don't have any important jobs today. Maybe I can go to the Bloodhouse with you. While Winston does the main jobs, I can help you get back on track. We can feed the animals."

"I think I'm going to sleep for a little bit longer, Nick."

"No freeloaders."

"I don't feel very well—"

"Liar." His fingers wrap around my wrist. "Come on.

Sighing, I drag myself out of the hammock. My body feels like it's made of stone. The sunlight stabs at my eyes. It's blinding. Too bright. I shield my face with my arm.

Nick chuckles. "Let's go. It's still early, but at least we get the warm eggs."

That means Minho is there, too.

It doesn't even excite me at this point. It's just more mental preparation for the looks he's about to give me. More sadness.

I rub the sleep out of my eyes, my muscles stiff. "Can you pass me something to wear?"

Nick throws the cargo pants that are way too big and dirty on my bed, along with a brown plaid button-up that's also way too big and dirty.

I usually make sense of my outfits by adding a belt and leaving the plaid shirt open (don't worry, I wear a white top below it). It's the least thing I can do with my hair looking like a bird nest.