Sam felt herself moving, but couldn't seem to register the sensation as an actual event occurring in real time. It felt more like a dream, or a distant memory. She found herself calling up images of devices she'd studied in the past, and ideas she'd had for the future that never came. Thinking about all those lost opportunities -those many, many untraveled roads- disturbed her perhaps a bit more than it should have. The smell of fajitas brought her out of that line of thought and promptly deposited her into another.

[i]"Now, when was the last time I had Mexican?"[/i]

Her backside touched something soft, but firm, and she became vaguely aware of something hard supporting her back. It wasn't solid; it felt more like...bars. It wouldn't have been a cage; those bars ran vertically. These felt rounded, like some kind of decorative ironwork. Her imagination drifted again, this time treating her to a grand sculpture of wrought iron in the shape of a dragon. She'd seen the gate online somewhere, probably as part of an article about eccentric millionaires and their extravagant homes.

A good minute or two passed before Sam realized she was staring at a plate. This moment of lucidity -which she could only assume would be temporary, given the fact she couldn't remember how she'd gotten here- blended seamlessly with an angry rumble from her midsection to induce a second thought about food. The same thought, however, which prompted her to eat also caused her stomach to turn.

"Looks good..." Sam forced herself to say something -anything- to prevent an awkward silence. Shrinks loved to use those on her. They would invent all manner of reasons why she shouldn't be so silent; each of those theories inevitably wending its way toward a few days in isolation, following a series of injections and a few broken noses. She wondered whether she would have received as much medication if she hadn't fought back, or whether it would have been more.

[i]"Eat something, stupid."[/i] she scolded herself. Even if it wasn't much, it would prevent the inevitable cascade of questions and feigned sympathy which invariably accompanied a lack of appetite. Her stomach growled again, and Sam was forced to admit it was just the nausea which had made this plate unapproachable. In another time, and another place, it would already have been gone, and she'd have been spending this very moment wiping up the last of the sauce with an empty tortilla.

She carefully lifted the neatly-folded fajita with both hands and, with eyes closed from the effort of willing herself not to Linda Blair all over what was- if she was honest with herself- the best spread she'd seen in recent memory, took the tentative first bite. That was all it took to convince her. This chicken had been marinated and grilled, then simmered in its own savory sauce until it fell apart. The spices worked well together, and the crunch of the vegetables added a much-needed texture to the wrap. As she ate, she tried to remember any place local which had served up something like this. By the time she came to the end of that list, she was looking at an empty plate.

"Thanks," she mumbled, still not quite "present". Before she could stifle it, her stomach added its compliments in the way of a loud-and-proud belch, deep and resonant, which sounded like it quite literally had its own teeth.