Meg jabbed off her recorder and lurched to her feet. She paced, clenching and unclenching her hands, palms damp. From that point her memory was blank. She’d slammed right back up against that black hole again, but this was the farthest she had gone into it. And she felt a sense of several shapes moving, like shadow puppets, evil silhouettes, just beyond her mental reach. “How late was I, Sherry? Were you still alive? Were you struggling, calling for my help? What did I do? Who was there? What did I see, dammit—” Wait. Stop! Don’t run, Meggie, don’t run! Meg froze.
