Marina shivered in the tarpaulin. Dennis had kindly wrapped it around her bone-white shoulders after pulling her out of the trunk. Now she was sitting in an oil-smelling outbuilding, blowing on a polystyrene cup of tea.
“I don’t know,” she said again through chattering teeth.
“Really?” said Dennis, lifting his baseball cap to scratch his head. “You reckon days? Are ya hungry?”
“Maybe. Yes.”
Dennis rooted around in a nearby drawer and produced a bent energy bar. Marina devoured it gratefully while keeping the tarpaulin tight around her naked frame. Her joints ached, the attachment points in her scalp stung like crazy – she didn’t dare touch them.
“See you had one of those Magic things on, at some point,” drawled Dennis, half-pointing at her threadbare skull. “Did you have a blackout? Brownout? Whatever?”
Marina shook her head. “Attacked,” she said, around mouthfuls.
Dennis raised his eyebrows, then looked pensive. “Attacked by who?”
Marina made a spider from her hand and mimed scuttling. “Fucking internet dweebs.”
“Well, shit,” said Dennis. Out of sight of Marina, his boot nudged a briefcase further under the desk.