It’s not much of a station. It’s more of a storefront, really, with a booking area out front, a couple of offices, a detention room with a table and chairs, and a cell – only it isn’t even a real jail cell with bars and stuff, just a locked room with a cot and toilet. I can’t stop shaking. It’s not cold, or fear, though I’m plenty scared. And it’s not burns. I mean, my eyebrows and hair are singed and frizzed, and there’re angry red marks around my nose ring and eyebrow stud and earrings where the metal heated up and burned me. But aside from blisters on my hands, and a weird case of sunburn on my face, and speckled spots on my arms and back where sparks scorched through my clothes, I’m not even burned, which is amazing. No, it’s shock. And anger. Because of Gwen. She must have been the one who called the cops. Who else could it have been? Her house is closest. She must have seen us going into the cabin. It’s bad enough that we’re not friends anymore, but for her to rat me out?
