Fyn woke slowly, his mouth dry as a desert and his eyes feeling as if they were producing that desert. His head pounded like a hangover from a three-week drinking binge similar to the ones he and his friends had in college.
He tried to stretch, but his legs hit the side of the box, quickly reminding Fyn of where he was. As soon as Fyn remembered what had happened, he realized that he wasn’t swaying due to a hangover. He was swaying because the box was moving.
Well, he was going to finally see their base of operations. Fyn thought to himself sardonically. Maybe not the way he had originally intended, too. But he was still gonna see it, nonetheless.
He tried to push against the top and the sides, hoping one or more of them would pop open so he could finally get free. But whoever had nailed them shut had done an excellent job. There were only a few random small holes to allow oxygen in and out.