“Save the fight for later, big boy,” the man hollers over to Dean, his focus pinned on me.

I can feel his foul breath skim my face. He smells like cooked carrots and gasoline mixed with rancid body odor. I squeeze my eyes tight, my shoulders bobbing up and down in time with my sobs. He leans in, further and further…

“Gimme a few hours, kitten, and I’ll show you a good time,” he mutters with a wink, his nose almost grazing mine. “I have to go make a car disappear first.”

Oh, God.

He steps backwards, cutting his eyes between me and Dean, then whirls around with a whistle and disappears up the staircase.

I fall to the ground—hard, crying and trembling.

There’s no doubt in my mind he’s going to kill us. He’s going to have his fun first, and then he’s going to slit our throats and feed our bodies to his dogs.

“Goddammit. God-fucking-dammit. Jesus fucking Christ.”

Dean is chanting away beside me, pacing the few steps he’s allowed to pace, then starts pulling forward against the pole, hoping to somehow break free. He tugs and strains through angry growls, and I’m actually worried his hands might separate from his wrists.

“It’s no use,” I say quietly, my head propped up against the metal post that binds me to this nightmare. This prison. “We’re trapped.”

“I’m not giving up.”

I watch him through blurry eyes as he continues his unproductive efforts, groaning and cursing the entire time. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

Tug. Twist. Shout. Swear.

“I’m sure the thought alone devastates you,” he grumbles.

I close my eyes as more tears leak out, and I suck in a shaky sigh. “Do you think anybody’s looking for us yet?” I wonder out loud, not really expecting an answer—there’s no way to know.

Dean eventually stalls his escape attempts, a sheen of sweat reflecting off his face from the morning light. He looks at me, and our eyes stay locked for a few beats, the raw truth of our predicament spearing us right in the gut.

Looking for us.

We’re going to be the product of search parties and canine trackers and news reports and gruesome documentaries on Investigation Discovery.

Me and Dean Asher.

Dean inhales with a shudder, leaning his shoulder against the pole. “You know, I used to joke that we’d probably end up killing each other one day,” he murmurs, kicking at a small rock near his sneaker. “I guess I always had a feeling we’d go together.”

I know he’s trying to make light of our ordeal, but his words sucker-punch me. They knock the wind from my lungs until I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.

I sit there on the cold, hard floor, quietly crying until my tear ducts dry up and I’m too exhausted, too weak, to even move.

Dean starts to sing.

I’ve always known he could sing pretty well from family karaoke nights at my parent’s house over the last decade. I’d sit on the couch with crossed arms and stony eyes, annoyed by the sound of his rich, gravelly voice. Mandy would swoon. My parents would stare at him with their proud, beaming faces. Even the goddamn dog would watch in adoration, her tail wagging with each perfectly-pitched note. Then everyone would clap, except for me, and Dean would take a bow, occasionally shooting a smarmy wink in my direction.