It was the hammering on the bathroom door that jolted me awake.
Someone was saying my name on the other side of the door. I raised my heavy head from the wet floor. “Yep,” I mustered in response. As I parted my lips to speak, I tasted something metallic — blood.
“Rachel?” the voice repeated. “Open the door.”
I have no recollection of unlocking the door. All I remember is the cloud of confusion that engulfed me as I sat on the edge of bed trying jog my short term memory. “We’re in Morocco,” my friend told me, in response to my question about our whereabouts. “Marrakech, to be precise,” he added, his face full of worry. Read more…
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