“Good way to get yourself killed, mate!” he roars as I attempt to catch my panicked, unsteady breath. His cheerfulness gone, Briggs wears the stunned, furious expression of a bully who wasn’t expecting to be hit. I hit him. I hit him; now he’s gonna hit me. I raise my forearms to shield my face from whatever’s coming, but nothing does. Breathlessly, Briggs pants: “What were you gonna do? Run? Even if you jump out when we’re dead stopped, you’re not gonna get far on bare feet. That road is covered in rubbish, grit, glass, nails, car bits, drug needles, whatever, and look at you: soft as if you’ve been putting those toes up on a velvet pillow every night. DON’T. RUN. You’re safe.”

“Oh yeah.” I laugh like a shotgun blast and crawl up to sitting. “Real safe.”

Briggs’s sternness finally breaks, and he brushes exhaustion from his face. “All right,” he says, softening. “I know you’re freaked. I would be too if someone grabbed me out of bed. If it was up to me, I’d do this another way…but I don’t make the rules.”

“Who does make the rules?”

“I promise, this’ll all make sense soon. It’s just part of the program.”

“Program?”

“Aye,” Briggs huffs, massaging his chest and taking in deliberately steady breaths, as if trying to calm himself out of a panic attack.

“Take me HOME.”

“We actually are gonna take you home again real soon. Your mum just wants you to come with us first on a short trip.”

“Trip?” I ask, almost offended at the idea. He’s tripping. “Trip where?”

“Think of this as part boot camp, part tropical holiday.” Briggs’s pool-blue eyes flare in the strobing expressway lights, which the blacked-out windows have muted into a soft amber. He reaches over his seat to pat my shoulder, but I squirm backward. “You’ve been under a lot of stress, haven’t you?”

“Stress? The kidnapping’s been stressful, yeah.”

My abductor throws back his head and unleashes a loud, obnoxious guffaw, his Adam’s apple bouncing as his buddies join in. “How many times I gotta say it: you’re not being kidnapped,” he finally says. “Your mum said you need help sorting your life out—”

“Except for being thrown into this van by you, my life is fine!” Mom planned this. Whatever this is—kidnapping or not—it’s something she arranged.

“We’re a bit unusual, but we help scrappy lads like yourself get back in line.” Briggs pats my arm with fatherly cheer. “Let’s get you some fresh air, some physical routine, and your confidence will flow right back.”

A fitness camp? Mom had me abducted for exercise? Is this like Tough Mudder or something, where grabbing you out of bed is all part of how “extreme” it is?

There has to be more to it than this.

I shrug. For now, it’ll be best if Briggs thinks I believe him. He’ll drop his guard, and when that happens, I won’t hesitate to run.

Streetlights pass through the tinted backseat window, briefly re-illuminating Briggs. His gray shirt clings to perfect, bowling-ball-round biceps. “Your mum says your dad isn’t with the family no more,” he says, popping a stick of gum into his mouth. “He lives in the U.K.?”