I take a step toward it. Then another.
My hand touches the fabric. It's real.
I crouch down and look inside.
The space is bigger than it should be. A child-sized tent but with room to sit up, move around. The floor is covered with a plush rug—white, furry, soft and thick enough to sink into.
In the center sits a wooden crate. Small. Perfectly sized to be a table.
My laptop is open on top of it.
The screen glows.
I crawl inside. The fairy lights cast everything in gentle shadows. It feels safe. Warm.
This is wrong.
I kneel in front of the laptop. The document is still open. The same scene I was writing before?—
Before.
Before what?
My hands start shaking.
Think. Think.
The eviction notice. The auction. The helicopter.
The man in the mask.
The exam table.
His cock inside me. His fingers. The wand vibrator. Coming so hard I?—
I blacked out.
And then I woke up and ran.
He chased me through the snow.
The syringe.
He drugged me.
I press my hands against my face. My skin is warm. Real.
He drugged me and brought me back here.
I crawl back out of the tent, stumbling to my feet.
My phone. Where's my phone?
I scan the room, pulse hammering.
There. On the kitchen counter.
I lunge for it, grab it, press the home button.
