Sharp, digital beeps wake me out of what feels like a molasses-like sea of sleep.
My eyes are too heavy to pry open, but I manage anyway.
I'm not in the camper.
Panic is immediate, freezing every muscle. It was already hard to move, and now it's impossible.
Two feet, clad in black flip-flops and wearing an anklet with a bell, chiming sweetly with every step, pace toward me. They're men's feet, making the anklet seem so much more out of place. It's on a delicate golden chain, and I wonder how it doesn't snap every time he walks.
"Oh, dear. You aren't supposed to be here."
His voice slides over me, soft like silk and dripping with the sweetness of honey, but with the faint, smokey sound of a man trying to seduce you in the dark.
I'm already on guard.
The casual amusement in his tone wraps around me with unsettling familiarity, as if we're old friends reuniting after a brief separation. Far too intimate.
