When he wakes, the images from
his dream are still fresh enough in his mind to recall all the details. As he sits upright, he rubs at his hands to ward off the feeling of asphalt digging into his palms without even noticing, and he can taste a strange hint of copper in his mouth
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(But at least she already knew Ing was dead.)
When Carl sits up, she turns her head from where she has it on her folded arms so she can try and see him in the darkness, but she doesn't say anything. Not yet.
Then he curses, quietly. "Carl?" she asks softly, shifting and lifting her head and shoulders.
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"Yeah, love?"
His voice is thick with sleep, and he rubs at his eyes, trying to clear his head. He can still hear a faint ringing in his eardrums and it's throwing him off balance.
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Carl presses his tongue against the back of his teeth, checking for any more blood. (There was never any in the first place -- or was there?)
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