My stomach turns.
No.
Don’t assume. Don’t spiral.
Think smart.
Stay present.
The van hits a pothole and my shoulder bangs against the side panel. Pain shoots down my arm. I bite my lip hard enough to taste blood.
I keep listening. Minutes stretch into something elastic.
The van slows at one point, idles, then speeds up again. Maybe a stop sign. Maybe a light. Maybe a checkpoint. My mind is grasping at scraps.
Then the sound changes again—less traffic noise, more wind. The hum of tires shifts like we’ve turned onto a different kind of road.
Gravel. My stomach drops. We’re leaving the main roads. Going somewhere quiet.
Somewhere hidden. The van rattles, the suspension protesting. My pulse spikes.
I fight the urge to scream. Screaming won’t help. Screaming will make them angry. Screaming will waste my air.
I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth, grounding myself in the physical sensation. I remember something a counselor once told me after a particularly brutal patient death: Name five things you can sense around you immediately. The reminders you are in the land of the living.
I can’t see. So I do the rest.
I feel the sting in my wrists. I feel the cold vinyl under my thighs. I hear the bass thumping from the front. I smell stale sweat and cleaner. I taste blood.
My brain steadies a fraction.
Think smart.
I try to slow my breathing to match the bass. In. Out. In. Out. The van turns again. The gravel gets rougher, louder. Then the van slows.
The engine idles.
A door handle rattles. Panic surges up my throat like bile. I swallow it down. The sliding door yanks open.
Fresh air rushes in, sharp and wet. I hear distant sounds—maybe trees moving, maybe nothing at all. Hands grab my arm again.
“Get up,” a voice orders.
My legs are stiff when I stand. Blood rushes to my feet in pins and needles. I sway. A hand grips my elbow harder, steadying me just enough to keep me moving.
They guide me out of the van.
The ground beneath my shoes is uneven—dirt, maybe. Rocks. Leaves.
Forest? My breath comes faster despite my efforts.
“Where are you taking me?” I ask, forcing the words out.
No answer. I take another step, and another. A door creaks open somewhere close. A building.
They steer me forward.
Inside, the air changes—warmer, stale, the smell of old wood and dust. The floorboards creak.
