Thomas had no concept of time as he went through the Changing.
It started much like his first memory of the Box—dark and cold. But this time he had no
sensation of anything touching his feet or body. He floated in emptiness, stared into a void of
black. He saw nothing, heard nothing, smelled nothing. It was as if someone had stolen his five
senses, leaving him in a vacuum.
Time stretched on. And on. Fear turned into curiosity, which turned into boredom.
Finally, after an interminable wait, things began to change.
A distant wind picked up, unfelt but heard. Then a swirling mist of whiteness appeared far in
the distance—a spinning tornado of smoke that formed into a long funnel, stretching out until he
could see neither the top nor the bottom of the white whirlwind. He felt the gales then, sucking
into the cyclone so that it blew past him from behind, ripping at his clothes and hair like they
were shredded flags caught in a storm.
The tower of thick mist began to move toward him—or he was moving toward it, he couldn’t
tell—increasing its speed at an alarming rate. Where seconds before he’d been able to see the
distinct form of the funnel, he now could see only a flat expanse of white.
And then it consumed him; he felt his mind taken by the mist, felt memories flood into his
thoughts.
Everything else turned into pain.
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