I don’t have a choice but to curl myself into the too-small space before he slams the lid, closing me into inky darkness.
Panic takes over, stealing my sanity. I can’t spend another day here. Or two. I have no way of telling how many hours at a time he locks me up in this trunk. I’ve lost track of time. All I know is that I’ll go out of my mind.
The lock on the outside clicks into place.
I bang on the lid, crying hysterically. “Let me out.”
Heavy footsteps fall on the floor. A door shuts with a mockingly quiet click. A second ticks past. Two… Nothing but silence follows.
I can’t breathe. There’s not enough air. I suck in the thin oxygen like a suffocating person, the effort hurting my chest.
Filling my lungs with the precious air, I scream until I faint.
Days could’ve passed. Or hours.
Only one thought keeps me from losing the battle against insanity.
Noah.
I have to stay alive for my baby. I have to fight for my son.
I mutter his name while touching my knuckles like the beads of a rosary. It’s a trick my mom taught me to calm myself when I was scared as a child. Like a prayer, I repeat his name, over and over.
Thumb. Noah. Forefinger. Noah. Middle finger. Noah. Ring finger. Noah. Pinky. Noah. Noah, Noah, Noah…
I’m so absorbed in my prayer that I don’t register any sounds until someone opens the lock.
When the lid lifts, I blink against the sunbeams that cut through the room. After the complete darkness, even the faint light spilling from the holes in the cardboard hurts my eyes.
Hulk hauls me out and puts me on my feet. He’s still wearing the army fatigues, but he smells clean, as if he bathes and changes clothes regularly.
Unlike me. I smell. My hair is oily and my skin sticky.
My joints and limbs are useless from being squeezed into the cramped space without moving for endless hours. They fold in on themselves like a puppet with snipped strings.
The man grabs my arm to hold me up.
“Tatiana.”
A shiver rakes down my spine. For a while, I’m not sure how long, I’ve forgotten my own name. I hate how he says it. His accent is heavy. Russian, I think.
“It’s time to make a choice.”
No.
I want to scream, but my vocal cords are too raw. I can’t make a sound.
Noah, Noah, Noah…
“The trunk or water?”
I want to cry, yet my eyes have been dry for a long time now. They seem to be as dehydrated as the rest of me.
I manage to squeak out, “No, please.”
“Now, now.” He clicks his tongue. “That’s not an answer.”
Sagging in his hold, I let my legs give out. It feels as if my arm may pull out of my socket, but I don’t have enough strength left to fight.
