The Collected (A Jonathan Quinn Novel)
“Before he could even register that he was soaking wet, another wave of water slammed into him.He gasped again.Close by, someone laughed.He twisted his head toward the noise, and saw a big man with scraggly blond hair and a goatee, a foot long and braided. He grinned at Quinn, an empty bucket in his hand.“You up now. Good,” the man said. “No fall back asleep, okay?”The man wagged a finger at Nate, exited the room, and shut the door. It wasn’t until he was alone again that Nate realized the bag was no longer over his head. He turned to look around to get a sense of where he was, but had to stop and squeeze his eyes shut as a wave of nausea swept over him. Nearly half a minute passed before he could open his eyelids again. This time, when he scanned the room, he kept his movements slow to prevent another attack. He was in a space that couldn’t have been more than ten feet square, enclosed by stone walls broken only by the single door. No windows, he realized, and no drain in the floor.
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