“Sit,” one of them says.
I fold awkwardly, wrists bound behind me, blindfold pressing against my lashes. The seat is vinyl, cold and sticky. My back is straight because I don’t know what else to do.
The door slams shut. The sound echoes inside the van like a final sentence. Then the engine turns over. The van moves. The sensation of motion twists my stomach. Every bump jerks my shoulders. My mind tries to track direction. Left turn. Right turn. Straight. Another turn.
But I’m exhausted. Disoriented. Panicked.
I can’t keep up. I force myself to breathe again.
Think smart.
That’s the only instruction I can give myself that doesn’t break into screaming. Think smart. Stay alive.
Grandpa.
The thought of him is a knife.
I picture him waking up confused, calling my name. I picture him sitting up in his bed gazing out the window waiting for my car to pull into the driveway.
I picture him dying because I didn’t do what they wanted.
Hot tears push behind my eyes, trapped by the blindfold. They slip down my cheeks anyway. I swallow hard, trying to keep my breathing steady.
The van smells like rubber and old fast food. I hear the driver’s music low—something with a heavy bass, a steady thump like a heartbeat.
I listen for voices.
Two men, at least. But I’m thinking it’s three. The one behind the wheel. The one who shoved me. The one with the picture.
They don’t talk much.
That scares me more than if they were yelling.
Quiet means plan. Quiet means purpose.
My wrists ache. The zip ties cut into my skin every time the van jolts. I shift my hands, trying to find a position that hurts less. It doesn’t.
I try to memorize what I can.
The sound of tires on pavement changes—smooth to rough. The pitch of the engine changes—slowing, speeding. A train horn in the distance. A dog barking. The rise and fall of the road.
It’s not much.
But it’s something.
Stay smart. It equals staying alive.
I focus on not hyperventilating. On not begging. On not giving them more of my fear than they already have. Because fear makes you sloppy. Fear makes you miss details. Fear makes you do what they want without thinking.
I don’t know what they want yet beyond obedience.
I don’t know why they have my grandfather’s photo.
I don’t know who sent them.
But I can guess even if I’m wrong, my mind goes there.
Dr. Reeves’ face flashes in my mind, uninvited. The way he smiled like he owned the world. The way he pressed when I said no. The way his eyes turned cold when I didn’t bend.
