I was in a trunk. There might be tools. Something metal I could use to cut the ropes. I searched unsuccessfully for a bit, then discovered that the lining of the trunk had been lifted out at some point and the raw metal of the car’s frame was exposed beneath. In lieu of any better ideas, I began to rub my wrists against it, and I was satisfied to hear the gentle, slow sawing sound of fraying fibers. I held my arms to my chin and felt the groove I’d worn through the rope. It would work, provided I had enough time. I had no way of gauging how fast the car was going, but it seemed to be making steady progress down a well-paved road.

Nothing to do but try.

After a minute or two the top wind of rope snapped and the knots slacked. I writhed myself clear and lay there, triumphant but fuming. Great. Now what? He was taking me somewhere, but God knew where, to do God knew what.

I’d find out soon enough.

The car backfired, and smoky carbon monoxide filled my nostrils. The humming engine coughed, and more noxious fumes flooded the trunk. I covered my nose with my sleeve, but it wasn’t enough to keep the burn away from my eyes.

We were slowing down.

The car lurched and heaved, and the pavement subsided to a slurping crunch as we pulled off the road. I floundered for something heavy to use as a weapon but found nothing. The car came to a complete stop and the engine was cut off. My time was running out.

I reached for the ropes that had held my feet and wound them loosely back into place, then did likewise to my hands—not actually restraining myself, but giving the appearance that I was still tied.

The driver’s door opened, then closed. Squishy footsteps worked their way alongside the car. They paused. Another vehicle was coming. I heard the distant roar and rush as it approached and slowed down.

“Do you need any help there, buddy?”

“No, no, I’m okay. I just pulled off to make a phone call.”

“Oh—all right. Have a good day.”

“You too.”

The other car drove away. Malachi did not move for a moment. His heart must have been beating as hard as mine, but I had little sympathy for him. In a moment he was going to open the trunk and then . . . and then what?

The key clicked and twitched in the lock. The trunk lifted. I held as still as I could, facedown with my hair spilled across my shoulders, trying to look as helpless and unconscious as I possibly could. My hands were tucked beneath me, so he might not notice they were not tied with his original handiwork.