When he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, there was a metallic clatter. Clamped around his ankles, over his socks, was what looked like a pair of handcuffs connected with a chain. A six-foot-long plastic-coated cable had been threaded through the cuff around his right ankle. The other end was looped around the leg of a desk a few feet away. The desk, made of aluminum and plastic, looked incongruously modern in the otherwise rustic setting. Under the desk was a built-in treadmill.

Bob was still wearing the same clothes in which he’d been taken. The same clothes he always wore. A plain black T-shirt and blue jeans. But what about his scarf? A second of panic before his fingers found it, still around his neck. No coat. His old white Nikes were nowhere in sight. Without the blanket’s warmth, the cold was already sinking into his marrow.

In front of the treadmill desk, the single window was framed by white curtains. Outside, an expanse of white snow and massive evergreens.

Derrick had told Bob about this cabin, tucked away in the forest. No landline. No Wi-Fi. Just electricity and running water—if a storm didn’t take them out.

Even if Bob managed to free himself, how far would he make it without shoes? He had researched frostbite, and it wasn’t pretty. While he wasn’t a big walker, without toes it would be even harder.

Between the bed and the treadmill desk was a nightstand overflowing with provisions. A brown Pyrex bowl filled with apples, bananas, oranges, pears. A bag of baby carrots. Six plastic water bottles. A loaf of Dave’s Killer Bread. A brick of Tillamook cheddar. But no knife to cut it with. No utensils at all.

Nothing Bob could use to free himself. To attack someone. Or hurt himself.

The treadmill desk held, somewhat incongruously, a typewriter. A black Royal. Sitting next to it was a neat stack of blank white paper. The rest of the desktop was bare.

A single sheet of paper had been folded in half and propped on top of the typewriter. On it was scrawled,

Better start writing Eyes of the Forest. Or else!

Bob took stock. He was in an isolated cabin, injured, shackled. No one but his captors knew where he was.

Maybe hurting him had surprised Derrick as much as it had Bob. Or wouldn’t he have put out painkillers, antiseptic, and bandages to go with the food? Other than the furniture, the room was bare. No TV, no magazines, no books. Not even any framed posters.

Nothing to distract him.

Bob shifted uncomfortably. Pressure, low in his belly. He had to pee. Presumably there was a bathroom someplace. He mentally measured the distance to the door and then the cable. It didn’t seem good.