Chest hitching, the bands around it so tight they kept her from drawing a breath, Amy became light-headed. She could not move. She could not see. She could not hear. She could not breathe. And her only thought was a single loop running over, and over, and over again.

“I’m home … I’m home … I’m home … ”

11: Bodavest

Hands. There were hands on her face like two soft spiders crawling over her skin. She couldn’t gulp enough air to make a sound. All that came out was a pathetic mewling. The big sound, the insane sound, was still trapped inside her head.

Light smashed into her eyes. Her pupils contracted to pinpricks.

“Shhh, shhh, shhh. It’s me, it’s Basil. Are you okay?”

Amy wanted to turn her head away, but the straps held it in place. Because her eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness, she was blinded by the dim glow of his cell phone. If she’d been capable of speech, she would have told him to go away, to leave her alone. Basil ran his fingers over the straps, which were as taut and rigid as steel. Amy’s body was numb. Circulation to her extremities had all but ceased; her limbs were as cold and lifeless as wood. Blood starved, they had floated away on a sea of pain, one by one.

Then Basil simply turned and walked away, taking his light with him. Amy closed her eyes and felt tears slipping down her cheeks. They were tears of relief. Now she could be alone again in the dark. It was cruel to make her think that someone had come for her. It was sadistic to make her think she was not alone when she knew that she was always alone. It was—

The strap holding her chin in place got tighter and tighter and then snapped and was gone.

She involuntarily sucked in a great mouthful of air—“Heeeeeeee!”—and gagged on it. Her lungs wouldn’t inflate enough to force it all down.

“Take it easy,” Basil whispered. “Small breaths.”

He was crouched behind her chair, foolishly trying to rescue her from what she had already embraced. Taking away what she truly wanted just when she had finally found it. Pretending that she could get out of her chair. Telling her lies.

“A good manager carries a pocket blade at all times,” he was saying. “You never know when a customer will need help opening a flat pack.”