She staggers down the alleyway, hands half-clawing at the bricks, as though the wall we’re a sturdy set of hands to catch her. Bloody-eyed, bloody-lipped, she twists, gagging up the last few hours’ of memories, pressing her back to the brick, then her hands to her knees.
Nothing makes sense.
She drops to her knees, digging out her phone, and struggles to dial a number she’s not sure anyone will answer. When she hits the asphalt and the phone skitters away, still ringing, shaking hands reach for it, and a shaking voice whispers, “…I need a pick up.”