When Levi came to, the acrid stench of ammonia clung to his nostrils as he stirred from unconsciousness. His mouth was dry, his tongue thick, and each breath scraped his throat like sandpaper. His limbs felt like lead, deadweight shackled to a body that barely responded. His vision swam with disjointed images—Ken Stuart, blurred faces, a car door slamming, and finally, Anya's face: a halo of dark hair, crimson lips curled into a triumphant smile.
As if from a distance he heard voices.
"Why is he awake? Isn't he supposed to be out for a whole hour at least?"
"I sprayed it directly in his face, I don't know what happened but we have to hurry and get this done."
"Welcome back to the land of the living, darling," came her voice, soft and mocking, as if she were welcoming him to some twisted dreamscape.
