I stumbled forward as someone shoved me between the shoulder blades.
The push had enough force behind it that it should have sent me face-first into the frozen ground.
Instead, I planted my boots and caught myself before my knees could buckle.
Behind me, someone clicked their tongue.
"Atta boy," a familiar voice muttered.
I didn't bother looking back.
I already knew whose voice it was.
The cuffs dug into my wrists as I straightened.
Cold air filled my lungs.
Illinois.
I was back in Illinois.
The realization settled over me slowly as my eyes drifted across the compound.
Grey skies.
Half-finished fencing.
Makeshift watchtowers.
The same weathered buildings.
The same smell of damp wood, smoke and old blood lingering beneath the winter air.
I don't know how long that ride had been.
Fifteen hours.
Seventeen.
Maybe longer.
Time had become impossible to measure after the first few hours.
They'd chained me inside the back of a transport truck like cargo.
