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Guessing Game
Roland shakes his head, the blindfold pulling in his long hair without in any way slackening. “I’m not sure.”
“Guess anyway,” Mike suggests.
He shakes his head again, more in confusion than refusal. It’s not a bad confusion, but he’s starting to lose the urge to think. That touch, the way he’s tied, have soothed him into a floaty, disembodied feeling. He almost forgets he’s there. Except where they prod him, question him, reminding. He relies on them to map him out, and they feel more real than he is.
“Guess.”
The word in that cheerful singsong is no hint. It comes from the speaker sitting above his head, between his outstretched arms. Marisol.