Her eyes snapped open.
And found a bathroom.
Not the warehouse. Not the concrete floor and ambient light and four months of accumulated misery. A 'bathroom' — white tile, clean, a showerhead mounted above her releasing a steady fall of warm water in a wide curtain, the steam rising around her in soft columns, the light coming from recessed panels in the ceiling rather than the sourceless dimensional glow she'd gotten used to.
She was in a bathtub.
Seated upright in a bathtub, the porcelain warm against the backs of her thighs and her calves, the water collecting at the bottom around her ankles and draining through a central grate with a quiet, consistent sound.
She was completely naked.
And a man was washing her boobs.
