“Now Miss Lewis assists me again with the rope.”

Ross dumps the coil on the floor. Emma’s eyes feel dry trying to track the movements: Simon in the cell, Ross with his paramedic costume, the black hole of the gun’s muzzle as Ross nudges her with it.

“Unwind a length. Toss one end over the top of the bars, to go through the roof of the cell.”

The rope is rough, the coil unspooling against her legs. Having something to do helps control the shaking in her hands. She has no idea what Simon is planning, but she feels it inside the room like a whispered promise of chaos.

The cell is about twelve feet high. After two attempts to throw the end of the rope into position, she realizes it’s not going to work.

“I’m not… It’s too high.” “You’re standing too far away,” Ross says. “Go inside the barricade. He won’t bite.”

Simon grins again at this.

Emma pushes one of the sawhorses aside and steps into the forbidden zone.

“Come on, Emma,” Simon exhorts. “Best efforts now.”

She takes a deep breath. Swings the rope end for a lasso effect, throws—the rope flops onto the bars of the cell’s ceiling. A few judicious flicks and it snakes into the cell from above. She pays out rope until the end curls into Simon’s lap.

“Oh, well done!” He applauds her.

This can’t be happening. This is too surreal, too dangerous, too wrong.

Simon ties the rope firmly around the twisted sheet between his ankles. “Ready to go. Haul away!”

Ross waves the gun at her. “You heard.”

Emma stares. “I’m never going to be able to pull him up. He’s a foot taller and about fifty pounds heavier.”

“Then you’ll have to pull hard.”

“You can do it, Emma!” Simon is smiling ear to ear. “Don’t be defeated by a little thing like physics!”

This is amusing him, she realizes. Simon is pandering to Ross because it amuses him.

It makes her angry enough that she picks up the slack rope and pulls.

The first eight feet are easy: Simon is already sitting on his bed, and he even uses his hands to push himself up higher once his legs are in the air. Then he is off the bed, and she is bearing his entire weight. She has to brace her feet against the slipperiness of the wooden floor, bend at the waist. Then, crawl on her knees.

Sweat stings in her eyes. The rope is taut at her shoulder. It slides twice, and she cries out from the burn of the coarse hemp. When she reaches some appropriate point, Ross says, “Stop,” and she forces herself to hold, and hold, and hold, while he ties the rope off.

“It’s done,” Ross says behind her. “You can let go.”

She collapses to the boards, utterly spent. Her hands are throbbing like she thrust them in a fire. When she rolls over, she sees everything laid out like a tableau. Kristin lies unconscious by the desk. Bell is tied up and shivering nearby. Ross stands by the barricade, smiling as he surveys his domain.