"You get in the car," a voice ordered as the driver leaned in; Elora's cup rattled under her finger.
"Bailey, I'm five minutes away," Elora said into the phone. Her voice was thin with tiredness and rehearsed calm. "I'll be at the table. Tell Foster I'm on the script changes."
"You're slow tonight," Bailey's voice answered, warm and sharp. "This is the last run before the panel. El, don’t—"
"Got it," Elora cut in. "I know. Tell Chloe to stop redoing the scene. We don't need soft crying; we need rage."
"You're impossible," Bailey laughed. It was the kind of laugh that made Elora feel normal.
The sedan smelled of worn leather and cheap cologne. The driver hummed a radio jingle low. Headlights cut the dark shoulder of the highway.
"Where are you?" the driver asked without turning. His voice had the flat evenness of someone who waited for instruction more than he gave it.
"Foster's. Summit table," Elora answered. Her fingers tightened on the paper cup. "Tell Gavin I—"
Something cold touched the back of her throat. The driver's hand didn't move. Her words slowed.
"El?" Bailey's voice sharpened. "El, you sound weird. Are you—"
She blinked and tasted metal. Her eyelids were heavy like curtains. She tried to push against the seatbelt and found the webbing soft and unresisting.
"Don't—" she started.
"Sleep," the driver said to the empty air. "It's better for
