10
Quinn
Lukabo paced. And paced. And paced some more. He checked an alien gadget on his wrist every few seconds like he was waiting for a call. Or message. Whatever these aliens called it.
My head didn’t hurt quite so much now, which was nice. My captor hadn’t said anything else since our initial conversation, which had been—I checked the delicate gold watch on my wrist—almost three hours ago.
I was tired of sitting and staring at the wall. Or him. Or my feet. Or the weird, bolted metallic ceiling. The room was smaller than my bedroom, which meant Lukabo had to turn around every three steps.
If the whole situation hadn’t been so damn scary, his long legs moving back and forth in the tiny space would have been funny.
Unfortunately the longer I sat here, the more I’d realized exactly
