One January Morning, Part 16

As the guard used a hand-held torch to cut first through the floor of the wagon and then through the pavement below, Morgan thought of dozens of questions to ask him—‘How do you know Roberts?’, ‘Where are you taking me?’, ‘Is there still hope?’—but the one that kept pushing and shoving its way through the mosh pit of her confusion and to the forefront of her mind was this: “What is your name?” And, of course, when he answered ‘Morgan,’ that was cause for alarm. For she knew what happened to excess Morgans in this story, knew all too well, and now she needed to figure out what to do. He was almost through to the sewer now, and the hammering of her attackers was shaking the wagon harder than ever, but could she really trust him to take her to safety? Could she really trust anyone at this point, anyone at all?

To be continued…

This month, January 2015, I’m telling a story one paragraph per day, inspired by cards from the Writer Emergency Pack. To read the next paragraph a day early, support me on Patreon.