Nothing.

There is nothing.

He rolls over, checking behind him. Running his hands around blindly until he finds the divide of the back seats. Shaking, he tries to locate the mechanism to lower one of the seats, he could crawl through the gap, but then what? The car is moving and if Connor bursts out of his confinement he could cause a crash. If he waits until they stop there’s the possibility he’d be able to open the back door, run away. But he might not have time. The child locks could be activated.

But.

But.

But.

There are too many things that can go wrong. Anyway, he can’t find the button to release the seats. Should he try to kick them? He shuffles as far away from them as he can, testing his idea, but he can’t get the angle right. There won’t be enough force in his legs.

Curling onto his side, Connor shoves his hands in the space underneath him. There’s some sort of hole. He digs his fingers into it and tugs. A false floor begins to lift. He can’t move it too far because of his weight. He shuffles backwards until his spine is pressed painfully against something hard. He lifts it again with one hand, trying to loop his other arm over the top of the rising floor to feel whether there is anything that might help get him out of here. The car brakes, throwing Connor forwards. The floor slams shut trapping his fingers. He lets out a cry. Connor is face down, scrambling to free his hand, turn himself around, to take the opportunity to scream and shout and try to attract attention, but before he can do all of those things, they are moving again, slower, but gathering speed.

Frustrated, Connor wrenches the false floor open again. Biceps trembling with the effort of raising the panel while it bears some of his weight. His T-shirt clings to him, sodden with sweat. His hands swipe left, right, fingertips connecting with metal. Straining, he inches forward reaching, reaching, reaching. His fingers close around the object and he pulls it towards him, akin to the fairground grabber machines he and Kieron loved so much. Hopes rising and dashing as the metal claws released the cuddly toys they had coveted. The memory tightens his grip.

Don’t let it fall.

Eventually, he has it firmly in his grasp and he lets the floor drop back down, panting, his prize tightly in his hands.

A wrench.

A weapon.

The car slows again and Connor has a flash of inspiration. Using the wrench he smashes the taillight. Pokes as much of his hand as he can through the hole, a shard of glass grazing his wrist. He wiggles his fingers. Somebody will see them and call the police.

Won’t they?

The car jerks to a stop. Connor is thrust forward.