I should get up. I should walk away. I should grab my friend’s arm and drag her out.
But there are guards at the rope. There are men around us. My best friend is distracted. The guy beside me is blocking my path with his knee angled in.
My lungs feel too small.
Panic rises fast, hot in my throat.
My mother died five years ago, yellowed eyes and a hospital room that smelled like antiseptic and old regret. Liver disease, the doctor said. Like it was a weather report. Like it wasn’t the inevitable end of every bottle she chose over us.
“Two different fathers,” she used to slur when she wanted to hurt me. “Two different men who never took responsibility. You really think anyone stays, Violet?”
Derek stayed.
Derek is twelve years older than me. When I was six and he was eighteen, he started working two jobs and coming home with groceries and bruised knuckles. He didn’t have to raise me, but he did. He became my parent while he was still barely an adult. He learned how to sign my school papers. He learned how to cook pasta. He learned how to look at men like this and make them back off.
Then he joined the army when I turned eighteen. He said he needed a paycheck that could keep a roof over my head without him breaking his body at a construction site. He said it like it was no big deal.
It was everything.
The last time Derek came home on leave, he gave me a number.
“If you ever need help,” he said, “you text this. You don’t wait. You don’t second-guess yourself. You text.”
I stare at my phone now, fingers trembling.
I’ve never used it.
I never met the man Derek told me about. Derek only said he was someone he trusted. Someone who would come.
The guy beside me leans back, too relaxed. Too sure.
“Come on,” he says. “Let’s get out of here. My place is close.”
“No,” I say, too quickly.
He lets his eyes sweep over my hips, my thighs. “You shouldn’t act like you’ve got options,” he says softly. “Not with that body. Be realistic.”
His hand moves again, fingers pressing into my thigh like he’s testing how much pressure it takes before I break.
I cannot breathe.
I tilt my phone so he can’t see the screen and open messages. My thumb hovers.
This is stupid. This is dramatic. He’s just talking.
That’s what my brain tries to tell me, because my brain is trained to keep the peace. To smooth things over. To survive.
Then his hand shifts higher and he murmurs, “You’re coming with me.”
My thumb moves on its own.
Unknown Number
“I need help. Please.”
I hit send.
The message shows delivered.
