OOM: Insomnia
Hannah Griffith cannot sleep.
It’s very odd, because the last few days have hardly been unpleasant. Under ordinary circumstances, they would probably count as very pleasant, good company, good food (even if she hasn’t really tasted what of it she’s eaten), nice place to run (and run and run). But circumstances are hardly ordinary.
She has no idea how long it’s been in DC since she left, so it’s impossible to guess what has and hasn’t been figured out, or accomplished. It’s been three days, more or less, here. It feels like a lot more.
When she closes her eyes, she can still hear Angela scream, opening the box with the heart in it.
She opens her eyes, curls up on her side and tries not to think about certain things, like the faces of Epps’ victims and how much she looks like each of them, and how worried two people as cool and collected as Brennan and Agent Booth had both seemed, and what’s going to happen if they don’t catch him and she spends the next five years looking over her shoulder, and what’s going to happen if he catches them and no one knows where she is or if she’d be able to get back home without them.
She thinks about all of them, of course. Thoughts chasing each other in worrisome spirals that do nothing at all to help with the sleeping.
Enough is enough, she decides, throwing off the covers.
Five minutes later, she’s dressed, her hair is pulled up messily on her head, and she’s headed downstairs.