On the first step, the wood groaned softly under my weight, a sound that seemed impossibly loud in the silence around me. I froze, listening for any sounds from above, my entire body rigid with tension.
There was nothing. I carried on.
Step two. Step three. I gripped the knife tighter, feeling its weight.
Step four. Step five. I was halfway there. My legs were trembling, from exhaustion or muscle atrophy, I couldn’t tell. Not that it mattered. I had to keep moving.
Step six. Step seven. Step eight.
I could see the door now, at the top of the stairs. Solid wood, painted white. Freedom was on the other side.
Step nine. Step ten.
Almost there. Almost there.
Step eleven. Step twelve.
Only one more step remained.
I lifted my foot and placed it on the thirteenth step.
I stood there for a moment, breathing hard, staring at the door. The frame was old wood, with a visible gap between the door and the jamb. Not much—maybe a few millimeters—butenough that I could see the darkness of the space between them.
I looked down at the knife in my hand. The blade was thin, flexible.
I positioned it at the gap, right where I estimated the latch would be, and slid it in carefully, feeling it scrape against wood and metal. There—I felt resistance.
I angled the blade toward the door, trying to push the latch back, applying pressure while simultaneously pushing on the door with my shoulder.
Nothing.
I tried again, this time wiggling the blade as I pushed, trying to work it deeper into the gap. I felt it catch on something—the beveled edge of the latch. I pushed harder, angling the blade, using my body weight against the door.
The latch gave way with a soft click.
The door swung open into the kitchen, bathed in afternoon light.
I stumbled forward, the knife still clutched in my sweaty palm. The hardwood floor was cold against my bare feet. My eyes scanned desperately for keys, for a phone, for anything that would help me.
But then, I felt something prick the back of my neck.
The unmistakable sensation of a needle piercing skin.
My hand flew up reflexively, but it was already too late. I felt the burn of medication entering my bloodstream, felt someone’s hand steadying me from behind.
No.
No no no no—
“I’m sorry,” Tom’s voice spoke close to my ear, apologetic. “I’m so sorry, Shay. But I had to be sure.”
The world began to tilt, reality sliding sideways like a painting falling off a wall. My legs gave out and he caught me, his arms wrapping around me from behind, lowering me carefully to the floor. The knife clattered from my grip with a metallic ring.
I tried to speak, to curse him, to scream, but my mouth wouldn’t cooperate.
The room was spinning now, stretching into impossible shapes. Tom’s face swam above me, blurry and distorted. He looked sad. Genuinely, heartbreakingly sad.
“Sleep now,” he said softly, and his hand smoothed my hair back from my forehead with terrible gentleness. “When you wake up, we’ll talk more about this.”
