Trenton was crouched on the floor of his kitchen, clutching the edge of the counter and resting his forehead against the cabinet beneath the sink. It's cool chrome handle rubbed against his eyelids, sensation coming back in time. Sensation that was his own, feelings that were his own.
This hallucination had been armed with thoughts that weren't his. The last had only been a chilling observation, but this was like having a voice in his head.
And the voice was wrong. Trenton didn't care about Shiloh. It was wrong, wrong, wrong.