"Time passes. Even when it seems impossible. Even when each tick of the second hand aches like the pulse of blood behind a bruise. It passes unevenly, in strange lurches and dragging lulls, but pass it does. Even for me."— Stephenie Meyer
Mason felt useless just standing there. She looked around and saw a length of two-by-fours stacked with the construction materials. She lunged for it. But the second she did, one of the monsters darted forward and made a grab for her arm. Lightning arced—flash after blinding flash, waves of white light rolling over each other like pounding surf—and Mason saw everything play out as if in a series of overexposed photographs.
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