I bring my knees up and start kicking toward the top of the trunk. I know the driver will be able to hear me. I don’t care. I’d rather pop it open in a busy highway than wait for him to park somewhere isolated and try to sneak away from the vehicle.

After three kicks I feel the car stop. This isn’t a good sign. It means we’re probably someplace secluded. I swivel around so I can kick him in the face if he opens the trunk. A minute goes by of me waiting. I wish I’d brought my hands in front of my body by sliding the cuffs around. I’m too afraid to do it now in case I’m caught in a vulnerable spot.

I wait for the sound of the key in the lock. It never happens. Instead, I hear the click of the trunk being opened remotely. The lid pops up a few inches. It’s dark out. I see a sliver of moon through tall trees.

Then the trunk flies open and a figure standing behind the trunk, near the back door, shoves a canister in my face and sprays me again. I see stars and clouds, then nothing.

60

MY FAMILY KNOWS I have at least an hour’s worth of air if the coffin stays airtight. On television they say only ten minutes. The plan is to raise me up after twenty. But I’m not going to make it five if I don’t do something. I’m going to drown.

I race through my options. Hidden under my costume I have a small knife. A gift from my uncle. Using it to carve through the wooden lid would take years. Instead, I feel for a weak spot in the sides using my fingers.

I touch a spray of water coming through a small gap between the planks to the side of me. I shove the knife blade through to force a bigger opening. Water squirts into the coffin and my fingers slip as I work the blade between the crack.

The coffin is filling up faster. I’ve made things worse.

I keep sliding the blade back and forth anyway. The edge catches on something. It doesn’t feel like a nail or another board and only gives slightly as I push into it.

I imagine the outside of the coffin. This must be the canvas strap holding the weights that keep the coffin from floating back up to the surface. I force the knife into the material. I only manage to bend it backward. I switch to a sawing motion, but nothing gives.

Water is up to my chest. I only have a few minutes left.

I’m desperate. I pull the knife out and move it a few inches farther down. I repeatedly jab at the strap from the inside, hoping to puncture and weaken it.

I want to cry. I want to scream. I do neither. My world is the strap. That’s all that matters.

The blade snaps through something and I feel a sharp vibration like a string being plucked. I saw at it again. I can hear the sound of something sliding free. I’ve cut the strap!