“Nova’s going into the box?”
“Good. She broke Prophet’s nose. He should keep her in there for a week.”
“My wife hasn’t raised her voice to me once since she came out. I hated doin’ that to her, but she knows her place now.”
Pure panic takes over. My body goes rigid, but Joshua just tosses me over his shoulder, an arm banded around my legs.
“You don’t have to do this! Take me back to my room. Please!”
He doesn’t say a word. My eyes have adjusted, and I realize we’re surrounded. Men. Women. Even children. Some are stern, others have a hint of pity in their gaze. But not a one moves to help me.
Joshua sets me down in front of a small, wood building backlit by the late afternoon sun. It can’t be much larger than a closet, with a massive padlock dangling from a heavy metal hasp on the outside of the door. Zeke waits for us, arms folded, a king ready to dispense judgement.
“Prophet, Nova spoke without permission and tried to convince me to call the authorities.”
Zeke digs into his pocket and comes up with a set of keys. “Nova knows the rules. And yet, she continues to break them. This is unacceptable. As the arbiter of justice, I sentence her to four days in the box.”
The very idea that he’s the arbiter of anything turns my panic into anger.
“Fuck you, asshole. My name is Grace Stone, you’re a kidnapper, and your cult is going straight to hell.”
Zeke grabs my arm with such force, my knees buckle from the pain. “Five days,” he growls as Joshua yanks the door open.
The heat hits me first. A wall of it, hotter than any oven. Inside, it’s blindingly white. Thick cloth is stapled to every wall, the floor, even the ceiling. No bed. No chair. Only a dented plastic jug of water and a camping toilet shoved into the corner.
It’s so small. I’ll go mad in there. I’ll die in there.
“Don’t. Please,” I beg, my voice cracking into pieces. “I’ll be good. I’ll do anything. I promise.”
“I told you actions had consequences,” Zeke says as he shoves me inside. “After this, you will never fight me again.”
The door shuts with a bang.
I hurl myself at the wood. Kick. Punch. Slam my shoulder into it until fire shoots down my arm. It doesn’t budge.
Sweat stings my eyes. A bead of it crawls down my spine. The air is heavy, thick, and suffocating. I’ll roast alive in here.
Then it starts. A low hum. Subtle at first, then swelling until the walls themselves vibrate. My teeth buzz in my jaw. My ribs ache. It feels like the sound is inside me, trying to claw its way out.
I scream obscenities—at Zeke, at Joshua, at every last twisted member of the Blessed Flock—until my throat is shredded raw.
No one answers.
No one cares.
No one comes.
I don’t know if it’s been hours or days. Time is an endless circle, twisting and turning until I can’t remember anything but this.
The heat scorches me alive until I’m gasping, clawing at my own throat, desperate for air. Then the cold seeps in, turning my sweat to ice, leaving me shivering so hard my teeth ache. There’s no in-between. No relief.
The constant, white glare burns through my eyelids no matter how tightly I squeeze them shut. I try covering my face with my hands, curling in the corner, but it finds me there too.
And the sound. God, the sound. It’s vibrating my very soul, crawling inside my chest and throwing my heart off its rhythm. Sometimes it fades, only to be replaced by Zeke’s voice. He reads from his fucking book, and his tone is so calm, so tender, so comforting, I find myself wanting to listen.
Nova. My Nova. Your sacrifice will save us all. You are the chosen. Surrender, and the pain will end. You will know only peace. Only love. Only your divine purpose.
The first few times I heard his voice, I cursed him. Spat venom through a dry, cracked throat. Now? I don’t have the strength. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. My lips split when I try to speak.
