Then nothing.
Cold.
The first sensation was bone-deep cold seeping through my clothes, through my skin, into my bones.
I tried to move and couldn't. My wrists were bound behind me, zip ties cutting into skin. My head throbbed where it had hit something—the van floor? The ground?
I forced my eyes open, blinking against disorientation. Darkness surrounded me, so complete I couldn't tell if my eyes were actually open or closed. Gradually, shapes emerged. Bare walls. Concrete floor. A bucket in the corner.
No windows. A single metal door with light seeping through the crack underneath.
"Leo?" My voice came out as a croak. "Leo!"
Silence answered.
I struggled to sit up, my head spinning with the effort. Every muscle ached, my neck burning where the needle had jabbed. How long had I been out? Minutes? Hours?
"Leo!" I screamed louder, the sound echoing off the concrete. "Where's my son?!"
The door remained closed. No footsteps. No response.
Panic clawed up my throat, threatening to choke me. Leo was gone. Those men had taken him, separated us. He was two and a half years old, terrified, calling for me—
No. Focus. You can't help him if you fall apart.
I forced myself to breathe, to think. The zip ties were tight but plastic. If I could find something sharp…
My eyes scanned the dim room. The bucket. The walls. Nothing.
Wait.
I maneuvered awkwardly onto my knees, then my feet, swaying as blood rushed from my head. Against the far wall, barely visible in the darkness, was a metal chair. Old. Cheap. The kind with exposed screws.
I stumbled toward it, nearly falling twice. When I reached it, I turned around and felt along the edge with my bound hands until I found what I needed—a rough edge where the metal had rusted, leaving a jagged point.
I positioned my wrists against it and began to saw. The angle was wrong, my arms screaming with the effort, but I kept going. The plastic bit into my skin as I worked, warm blood making my hands slippery.
Come on. Come on.
The zip tie snapped.
My hands flew apart, numb from restricted blood flow. I rubbed them together, wincing as sensation returned in painful prickles.
Free. At least my hands were free.
I moved to the door, pressing my ear against the cold metal. Voices, distant and muffled. Men talking, laughing. Nothing that told me where Leo was or if he was okay.
I tried the handle. Locked, of course.
I was backing away, looking for anything I could use as a weapon, when I heard it—faint but unmistakable.
A child crying.
"Leo," I breathed.
The sound came again, a little louder. It was him. It had to be him.
I pounded on the door with both fists. "Let me out! Where's my son? Let me see him!"
