Excerpt of Gone by Barb Han

If memories were liquids, then Elizabeth Walker's would be
blood. Not warm, life–giving, tissue–bathing
blood, but cold, coagulated, dried up, and
stepped–over–on–the–sidewalk blood.

Memories weren't liquids.

They were more like fireflies blinking in the dark, daring
to be caught, disappearing a moment before they could be
reached. And the only liquid left in Elizabeth's body was a
few unshed tears. They hardly ever fell now. Even they
seemed to be drying up on her.

Nightmare or not, she would claw her way through any level
of consciousness to save the boy. The last ounce of breath
she drew from her lungs burst out as a scream, leaving her
choking and gasping for air.

The sense of urgency to save him, to do something, burned
frustrated holes through the bottoms of her feet—feet
that did not touch pavement no matter how fast she moved.

She had to do something. But what?

She calculated the likelihood of reaching him and came up
short. He was far. No way could she reach him in time. Yet
waiting, doing nothing, wasn't an option either. Protective
instinct propelled her legs forward, and damn the odds.

"Somebody. Help." She pushed herself from the dream.

She dug her fingers into her mattress, discharging a crush
of bleach into her hyperventilated nostrils. A drowning
sensation filled her lungs. She clenched her chest muscles.
She gasped, struggling for oxygen.

A door slamming against a wall made her sit bolt upright.
Two bulky men in blue scrubs burst into the room.