It doesn't matter now.
All that matters is getting to her.
Before it's too late.
BECCA
I wake up drowning.
Not in water. In fog. Thick, suffocating fog that wraps around my brain and squeezes until I can't tell which way is up.
My head is pounding. My stomach is churning. My heart is still lodged in my throat from whatever nightmare I just crawled out of—Coney Island, the zoo, the emo club, all of it bleeding together like a fever dream I can't shake.
I try to move.
Can't.
My wrists are tied. My ankles too. I'm sitting in a chair, and there's something over my head—fabric, heavy, scratchy. A hood.
Panic flares in my chest, sharp and immediate.
Where the fuck am I?
I force myself to breathe. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Don't spiral. Don't—
A sound cuts through thefog.
Whimpering.
Crying.
Soft, broken sounds that make my skin crawl.
I'm not alone.
I twist my head, trying to see through the fabric, but it's too thick. I can barely make out shapes—shadows moving in the dim light filtering through the weave.
I grit my teeth and start working the hood. It's tied loosely around my neck, and if I can just—
There.
I jerk my head forward, hard, and the hood slips. I shake it off the rest of the way, and it falls to my shoulders.
And I see.
Oh, God.
I see.
Men in suits. White masks. Guns.
They're standing around the room like sentries, silent and still, watching us.
Us.
There are others. Women. Girls. Boys.
Some are sitting on the floor, tied up like me. Some are slumped against the walls, barely conscious. One girl—she can't be older than thirteen—is curled into a ball, sobbing quietly into her knees.
