TWELVE“Good morning, San Antonio.”
It was like no voice Sandie had ever heard before, bizarrely tonal, as though the speaker could not decide whether he was talking or singing. The sounds came slowly, laboriously, elongated by effort and intense concentration.
She rolled over to find the creature standing in the doorway. The voices of morning newscasters drifted up the stairs and down the hall, but those voices were generic and familiar, drained of dialect and character, just like the voice of every other newscaster in America. The one that had woken her was different.
“Lane closures down San Pedro between the Anderson Loop and Sandau Road will continue today. Commuters can expect delays of up to half an hour, so leave early.”
“Holy crap!” Sandie sat bolt-upright in bed, tugging absent
