The door shuts behind me.
Darkness on darkness.
My own heartbeat is so loud it’s a roar.
One of them moves behind me. I hear the snip of something.
The zip ties loosen.
My hands drop, numb and aching. I rub my wrists instinctively, but a hand slaps mine away.
“Don’t,” he warns.
Then the blindfold is yanked off.
Light stabs my eyes. I blink hard, tears spilling.
The room comes into focus in pieces—bare bulb overhead, peeling paint, a metal chair, a table with nothing on it. The windows are covered.
Two men stand in front of me.
Their faces are still partly hidden—hats, masks, shadows—but I can see enough to know they’re not teenagers playing a game.
They’re grown.
Capable.
And they’ve done this before.
One of them holds the photo of my grandfather again. He sets it on the table like it’s a contract. “We’re gonna ask you some questions,” he prepares me.
My throat tightens. “What questions?” I whisper.
He leans forward slightly. “You answer right,” he says calmly, “your granddad keeps breathing.”
The other man shifts, gun still in his hand, still pointed in my direction like I’m not a person, just a problem. I swallow, forcing myself to meet their eyes even though every instinct is screaming at me to look away.
Think smart.
Stay calm.
Be useful.
Stay alive.
My voice shakes but I make it work. “Okay,” I say. “Okay. I’ll answer.” I commit but I’m confused as to what I could answer to help any of these men.
And in my chest, beneath the terror, something hard begins to form. Not courage. Not yet. Just resolve.
Because I don’t know what they want. But I know what I have to do.
Survive this.
For Grandpa.
For me.
And—though the thought nearly breaks me—for Miles, who doesn’t know yet that something has gone terribly, terribly wrong.
