Jericho
Steel-tipped black boots edged into my line of sight.
"Jericho? Fuck, Jericho, are you still alive?"
That sweet yet bitter voice. Not like my mother's but probably just as imaginary. I had to be hallucinating. Forcing my chin to lift, I was met with Miranda's gleaming blue irises peering down at me in concern. A sniper rifle was slung across her black-clad figure.
"Oh, thank God," a breath of relief whooshed out parted lips, "listen, I'm going to have to shoot the locks on the chains and then untie you. I don't exactly have keys. Don't worry, I won't hit you."
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