Chapitre 175: Caleb Turner. Cliffs

I rub my left thumb over a small scab on the back of my right hand. It doesn't quite sting like it used to when the wound first appeared, just barely an hour ago. Despite my groggy state, my mind still starts to race—How did it heal so quickly? It shouldn't already be scabbing over, should it? 

"It's because of the water," the stranger from before—the one who told Andrew and I about the state of the outside—suddenly whispers. We have been sitting in stone silence, this is the first time since he told us good luck that he has spoken. In fact, I thought he has been sleeping this whole time. 

"Sorry?" I ask. My voice sounds hoarse to my own ears, hoarser than it usually does. I've been screaming all night—either giving instructions to bystanders with bewildered expressions on their faces or repeating, for the hundredth time, consoling words to people who would rather be unconscious.