“I won’t hurt you,” I mouthed, and then put my finger to my lips. I slowly moved forward, conscious of the tiniest groan in the floorboards that would alert the Mazikin upstairs to my presence. Squatting next to the boy, who reeked of piss and sweat, I used my knife to carefully cut through the ropes binding his wrists, which were bloody from his frantic attempts to free himself. The boy fixed his attention on the stairs. We both knew that was where the threat would come from if we were discovered. While I worked, I noticed his arms were covered in more than claw marks … they were covered in track marks, too. Recent bruises and scabs in the crooks of his elbows and down his inner arms. This kid was so young, but he was already an addict.

“They told me they had some good stuff here,” he whispered when he saw me looking at them.

I put my finger to my lips again and shook my head. He could tell me all about it after we were safe. But my insides knotted with anger. So that’s how these Mazikin were recruiting. They were luring messed-up kids into this house … and sending their souls straight to hell.

With one final slice of my knife, the ropes fell away from the boy’s wrists. I caught him as he collapsed onto the spongy, damp carpet. He cradled his raw, torn wrists and sank into me, his shoulders shaking and his face twisted with pain. I wrapped my arms around him, whispering as quietly as I could, “It’s okay. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

As much as I didn’t like being close to most people, I wanted to comfort this kid. I knew how he felt, and I wanted to make him promises. I wanted to tell him that he wasn’t disposable, that better things were ahead, that he wasn’t alone. I could have been just like him if not for Diane. So I held him like the mother he needed in that moment and silently fought my own memories of being broken and having no one to do this for me.

He finally pulled himself together and swiped his hands across his face, smearing tears across his dirty cheeks. He looked up at me from underneath his mop of greasy blond hair, cautious and shy. “My name’s Nick,” he said.

I shook my head, pinched his lips together, and then tried to smile in a reassuring way. He nodded, smiling back even though I was holding his mouth closed. It was the sweetest, most hopeful little smile, and I was determined to earn it. I put my face close to his dirt-rimmed ear. “Can you walk? We need to get you out of this place.”