Thud.
My hands tremble. I force them to move. I lower the window an inch. Cold air rushes in, carrying the smell of damp earth and exhaust.
“Get out of the car,” the man says. His voice is flat. Not angry. Not loud. Worse.
Controlled.
I swallow. My throat feels tight, like it’s closing. “What—what do you want?” My voice comes out thin.
The second man leans closer, gun angled toward my chest like it belongs there. “You do what we say,” he tells me. “You won’t get hurt. And he gets to live.”
The first man tilts the photo slightly, making sure I see my grandfather’s face. A threat in a snapshot. My mind scrambles. Thoughts collide, splinter, scatter.
How do they have that?
How do they know him?
How do they know me?
My chest tightens until it hurts.
I try to breathe like I teach my anxious patients to breathe. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Slow. It doesn’t help. My fingers are numb on the window button.
“Now,” the first man says. “Get out.”
My body moves before my brain can argue.
I unbuckle my seatbelt with shaking hands. The click is loud in the silence. I push the door open and step out onto the gravel shoulder.
My legs feel unsteady, like I’m walking on water. My skin prickles.
I keep my hands where they can see them, palms open. I’m not thinking about bravery.
I’m thinking about Grandpa. About the way he coughs at night. About the way he squeezes my hand when he’s scared but doesn’t want to say so. About the way he looked at Miles, smiling like the world was finally giving me something good.
The men move fast. One circles behind me. I hear the crunch of gravel, close. The other keeps the gun on me, unwavering.
“Hands behind your back,” he orders.
My mouth opens but nothing comes out. I do it. I lace my fingers together, wrists trembling.
Plastic bites into my skin. Zip ties. They cinch them tight. Pain flares, sharp and immediate, like a hot line around my wrists.
I gasp. “Stop—” I start, but the gun shifts slightly and my words collapse. A blindfold comes next—something thick, rough, pressed against my eyes.
Darkness swallows me. I suck in a deep breath and it still the panic is consuming me. “No,” I whisper, because saying it out loud feels like maybe it will matter. It doesn’t.
A hand grips my arm. Hard.
Not gentle. Not cruel either. Just efficient. They guide me away from my car.
Each step is uncertain. Gravel shifts under my shoes. My balance wobbles. My heart pounds so loud I’m sure they can hear it.
My purse. My phone. My keys. All left behind.
A door slides open with a hollow metallic sound. A van. The smell hits me first—stale air, sweat, something chemical like cleaning supplies.
They push me inside. My knees knock against something hard. I stumble. Hands shove my shoulders down.
