It was hot and dark, the air shot through with electricity. Heat lightning trembled, illuminating the scene in brief slashes. He stood before a great wooden door set into a mud-brick wall. The timbers of the door were smashed in. 

He pushed aside the shattered fragments, stepped through the opening—and all at once, like a jump cut in a horror flick, he was inside the house, entering a room. 

Jump cut. 

Now he was on the other side of the room, sitting on the earthen floor, back to the wall, legs splayed out. A flash lit up the room—

And now he was eight years old, on the floor of an enormous closet, screaming— 

Finn awoke panting, covered in blood. 

Gradually, he became aware that it wasn’t blood. 

Of course it wasn’t.