(Untitled)

[tricelled]

[With its residents dead, dying, or out of their minds, Mayfield is quiet- moreso than usual. 1761 Beaver Street's drone husband mills about his morning business, oblivious to his "wife" waking up in their bed. The woman's eyes flicker open, and she sits up in a swift jerk. Her eyes scan the room almost mechanically, before widening in apparent

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[bustydefense]

Jill? Are you all right?

[tricelled]

[Dead silence from the other end.]

[bustydefense]

Jill, I'm pretty sure that's you. What's wrong?

[tricelled]

...

How long was I gone?

[bustydefense]

A... A few days. Four or five, maybe?

[tricelled]

...No.

[bustydefense]

Six, at the most. What's happened, Jill?

[tricelled]

...Years. I've been gone for at least two years. Maybe more.

[bustydefense]

[On the other end of the phone, Mia pauses, her breath catching in her throat. No wonder Jill sounds different.]

You... went home. And time moved forward there.

[tricelled]

Yes.

Can't stay here. Need to go back.

[bustydefense]

You should remember, then, that we can't yet.

[tricelled]

[Jill makes a bizarre noise; an almost animalistic snarl.]

...

[bustydefense]

I wish I could tell you otherwise as much as you do.