He wiggles it, shakes it. Laughs at it like it’s a novelty.
‘Ha, wow, you are right! Jo-lo’s arm is fine. It repair itself.’
‘Maybe,’ I say, turning away.
The slash across my back is no longer there, either. I run my fingers along the place where the tear should be, half-expecting to find blood, but there’s nothing but smooth, cold skin. I can feel myself shimmering, flickering somehow. Like I’m not really here. A dream within a dream.
‘Maybe it was that woman,’ Jo-lo says, stroking his elbow. ‘That one with the knives for arms. Maybe she sent us here.’
‘I don’t think so,’ I say. But I think of her, just for a moment. Not now, but the way she used to be. Her dark, streaming hair. Her staccato laugh. Her sweet, velvety voice before she sacrificed her tongue and her limbs to the Assassins. I suppose, in our own way, we all made sacrifices for the war.
Beyond the dark cave of roots we are in, I can see light. Not real light, but something artificial and burning. I try to peer through them, but they continue to slither this way and that. And when I reach out to part them, they panic and weave tight into one another, sealing the light out completely.
‘We have to find a way out of here,’ I say. ‘Any ideas?’
Jo-lo begins to say something but before I can hear it, I am gone. We both are. There’s nothing but the swimming black and a blinding, suffocating feeling that reminds me that at some point in the far future, I am going to die.