"Fine, I think," Sam said. Because that was what you said in a situation like this. You didn't say 'I feel weird' or 'I think something's wrong with me' or 'I could murder a bag of Cheetos.' The former two didn't make any sense. And the latter was pretty much a given. Had been a given. For at least the last eleven months of Sam's so-called life.

She parted the synthetic hair around her face, wondering how the hell she was going to manage to dry out her wig for a second time. It was tighter and more unwieldy than usual.

Hashtag: Real life problems.

Or something.

She stood up, feeling wobbly and just so fucking cold. What was wrong with her? "Are we dead?" she asked hopefully.