I stared at the cookies, knowing what my evening would involve: sitting alone on the unfamiliar bed, reading old books, and trying not to cry. This time, I could weep into my giant plate of cookies. I’d be sad and sick to my stomach. Extra fun.
If not for the pain, I might’ve doubted my memory. A demon had thrown a cookie at my face? Hands down the strangest thing that had ever happened to me.
“Why should I answer a question?” I whispered cautiously. Then, since I’d already hitched a ride on the crazy train, I added, “You threw a cookie at me.” “You threw it at me first.”