In a flash, I remember . . . something. A feeling of not being alone, yelling at Jacob.

But it wasn’t Jacob. I know that.

Who was it?

A sharp pain lances through my skull as I try to remember, and I hiss.

Okay, breathe, Zoey. If you can’t go back, figure out what’s happening now.

Blindly, I feel around—stinky carpet, hard metal framing, a few wires.

Wait, what’s that?

Behind my leg, I feel something big and squishy. I twist and bend, trying to get my hand down to grab it.

“C’mon, Zoey. Stretch like you’ve never stretched before. Pretend you’re at yoga . . .” Grunt. “Or one of those bendy people who can do a backbend without cracking a bone.”

The pep talk still sucks, but as I flick my fingers against what I can now feel is nylon, I finally get a grip on it and pull it up. It’s a . . . bag?

“Please let there be a weapon inside,” I pray as I find the zipper. Inside the bag, I don’t find the metal of a gun or the plastic of a Taser, but rather fabric, wet and smelly with a new layer of stink that adds to the urine grossness still surrounding me despite becoming accustomed to it.

“Ugh,” I groan, wiping the wetness on my scrub pants. Not finding anything I can weaponize, I tune in to what’s happening outside the car.

Road noise . . . a speed bump or . . . Wait. That was a railroad track.

Immediately afterward, we swerve left.

I close my eyes to trace the railroad line through Williamson County.

What if you’re not in Williamson County anymore?

The thought sends ice through my body, raising goosebumps along my arms. It’s entirely possible I’m somewhere well beyond county lines because I have no idea how long I was unconscious.

But I have to believe that railroad is the one I’m familiar with because the alternative is too terrifying.

Okay, Zoey. Think. Railroad track crossing and then a left swerve.

It hits me . . . a pothole. At the Cameron Oaks crossing, there’s a huge pothole that’s been there for years. People who live out here in Williamson County know that and swerve without giving it a second thought.

Good job, Zo. Now you know where you are and that it’s a local driving. What else?

With an idea of where I am, I can close my eyes and visualize the road. We turn right on Redbud, go straight for a bit, and then another right on Laverne.

Wait, no. Not Laverne, I think it was Mayfield Lane.

What’s out here?

Before I can remember, we’re bumping along the road, and I bounce around the trunk wildly.

I cover my head with my hands for protection, letting my elbows and knees take the brunt of the impacts as I hit the unforgiving metal again and again.

“Aw . . . ugh . . . ow!”