[He can still remember being a child, all full of nightmares. Back when Wrench actually thought there was nothing scarier than the inventions of his own mind, what had Grady taught him? Look for the incongruent. Focus on the inconsistencies, and use them to snap yourself out of it. Wrench never figured out where his friend learned half the shit he spouted off, but it always had a way of working. He sees them now, easily: the metal cuff on his wrist is a solid piece, yet it forms like it was molded to him. How could anyone have buckled it in place when there's no crease or hinge? The hedges, too, are too perfect. A repeating pattern of conifer that nature couldn't have possibly invented. It's too unimaginative, too cut-and-paste.
Come on, Wrench, wake the fuck up.
He jams the cuff as far up his wrist as his hand will allow and growls in frustration. The pain of the friction burn seems real enough, and he can smell the rusty metal that binds them. Unless he's smelling his own blood, but he can't find the thread to follow out and back up to the last place he remembers consciousness actually leaving him. Wrench makes a fist and jerks the chain in frustration, which might send the woman stumbling to compensate for the bit of slack that's taken up between them. At least he has the good sense to look guilty at that when he realizes.]
Sorry, [he circles his chest with his right fist, and just that small action tugs her left arm again to comply. This has got to be a dream. Only his own mind could invent so many different rationales for binding up his hands like he hates most. Wrench squints over the hedges and shrugs. What can they do but start walking?]
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Come on, Wrench, wake the fuck up.
He jams the cuff as far up his wrist as his hand will allow and growls in frustration. The pain of the friction burn seems real enough, and he can smell the rusty metal that binds them. Unless he's smelling his own blood, but he can't find the thread to follow out and back up to the last place he remembers consciousness actually leaving him. Wrench makes a fist and jerks the chain in frustration, which might send the woman stumbling to compensate for the bit of slack that's taken up between them. At least he has the good sense to look guilty at that when he realizes.]
Sorry, [he circles his chest with his right fist, and just that small action tugs her left arm again to comply. This has got to be a dream. Only his own mind could invent so many different rationales for binding up his hands like he hates most. Wrench squints over the hedges and shrugs. What can they do but start walking?]