I can’t overpower seven men.
I can’t run blind through an unfamiliar house with my hands tied.
I can’t scream—no one would hear, and even if they did, these men would be gone before help arrived.
All I can do is buy time.
All I can do is keep them talking, keep them focused on their injured “brother,” and keep my grandfather alive long enough for something.
For Miles.
For the universe.
For a crack in their plan.
“I can help,” I state slowly.
The president’s eyes narrow, like he doesn’t trust the shift.
“I can help stabilize him,” I add quickly. “I can control bleeding, monitor vitals, prevent shock. But if you want him alive, I need supplies. Sterile supplies. Antibiotics. Pain control. Clean water. Light. Someone to assist.”
The men murmur.
One of them says, “We got a kit.”
Another laughs. “Kit ain’t gonna cut it, dumbass.”
The president stands, looking down at me like he’s weighing whether I’m trying to play him.
“You try to run,” he states, “I’ll FaceTime your granddad while I pull the trigger.”
My stomach flips. “I’m not trying to run,” I share, and I hate that I have to sound reasonable to a man holding my life like a coin he can flick away. “I’m trying to keep your brother alive. If you want that, you need to let me work.”
He stares at me a long moment, then jerks his chin toward the hallway.
“Untie her,” he orders.
Hands grab my shoulders and haul me to my feet. The chair scrapes. Someone cuts the zip ties with a knife, and the sudden release makes my arms tingle painfully as blood rushes back.
I flex my wrists, rubbing the angry red grooves.
“Hands in front,” the president says. “And you keep them where I can see them.”
A man produces another set of zip ties. They bind my wrists again, but this time in front of me, tighter than necessary. My fingers ache.
“Move,” someone says, shoving me toward the hallway.
I stumble, catching myself on the wall. The house smells worse back here—stale air, old smoke, something metallic like blood.
We pass closed doors. A bathroom with a cracked mirror. A laundry room with piles of clothes. The normal details make it more horrifying. Like evil can live in regular wallpaper and cheap carpet.
At the end of the hall, a door opens and a wave of heat hits me.
A bedroom.
But not a bedroom you sleep in.
The bed is shoved against the wall. A tarp is spread across the floor. A standing lamp is angled like a spotlight. And on a chair—an actual wooden chair pulled from a kitchen set—there is a man slumped forward, shirtless, skin slick with sweat.
