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When Zoya wakes up next, it's because the Jawas are dragging her across the floor. She's only half-aware of the experience, and it's as if her mouth doesn't work, because she can't find the energy to move her lips or ask her vocal cords to make any noise. In her head, she swears at them.
With as many foul, vulgar words she can think of when her brain is made of slow-moving mush and her body is molded from unresponsive rubber.
Her hair snags on cracks and unevenness on the floor, pulling painfully at her scalp. Zoya's more than sure that a few strands rip out, but she can't find any energy to sit up or tell them that she can walk on her own—because she can't. Terror obliterates a person from the inside out, and right now, she's scattered into millions of tiny pieces.
Zoya's head lolls to the side, and fragmented images reach her irises as her eyelashes flutter, distorting the world around her. Flashes of the Jawas, pulling her with difficulty, muted lights and suddenly the white spot of the sun from what might be an open window, heavy chains clinking and squealing upon the ground, slats of the floor sliding brusquely over the ridges of her spine and shoulder blades, fragile and exposed and easily crushed like butterfly's wings, voices she can't understand and voices she does, though nothing sticks in her strained mind.
Her eyes close again at some point, because the next thing that registers is a bright, burning light shining directly upon her eyelids. She winces, some of the feeling returning to the furthest corners of her body, and a groan falls from her lips. Her elbows dig uncomfortably into the surface beneath her, but at least it isn't moving anymore.
"Zoya?"
The unfamiliar voice tumbles into her ears, rough and unsure. Barely able to open her eyes, Zoya forces herself to sit up, propping herself up onto her elbows, knowing she probably looks like a mess. The chains rattle as she moves, and she has to take a deep breath to prevent herself from spiraling again, breathing in the fresh air and reminding herself that she isn't stuffed inside a cell anymore.
"Still kicking," she manages, squinting. Why is it so damn bright?
"Your bounty hunter should return soon," the voice says.
"My—my what?" Finally, her eyes adjust, and an image comes into view before her. She's been dragged out onto the ramp of an enormous sandcrawler, Jawas skittering about. The desert sprawls out before them, vast and unforgiving and not as beautiful as she'd originally thought, mountainous ranges spearing the sky. "Where is he?"
