I roll over and stare out my bedroom window. Even if I could get it open, there are the heavy metal bars. Even if I could pry the bars off, we’re seven stories up. I roll over and look at the door. It’s monitored day and night. It doesn’t open without a guard pressing a button from the control room. Yet there has to be a way to get my mama out. I refuse to give up and let her live out her last awful moments in that room.

The only possible option is what Tish suggested earlier. Rusty. Rusty with his filthy smile and ugly mustache. Thinking about him makes my stomach churn. I can’t imagine letting him touch me. But if he could free my mama, wouldn’t it be worth it?

Would he get her out and me out, too? Images of Betsy writhing in pain flash through my head. I don’t want to bring a baby into this world, be a part of this twisted system that manufactures girls like canned soup. Then my daughters would be faced with the same horrific decision I’m forced to make. I shutter at the thought of having a baby, just to lose her to plan B.

I’ve wound my bed sheets into knots. I lean my head back on my pillow and look up at the clock. Forty-four hours, fifty-five minutes. Soon, by not acting, my decision will be made for me.

* * *

When my door slides open, Rusty struts in with my breakfast tray. The sight of him smirking, rubbing a finger over his carrot-colored mustache, is revolting. He’s tall and rail thin, with a head of red, curly hair. He’s wearing the white guard’s uniform and black loafers. But it’s his eyes, slipping over my body like filthy hands, that make me want to gag.

He sets the tray on the table, takes a napkin and drapes it over the surveillance camera lens. His voice oozes like rancid oil. “Hey there, sweet thing. Heard you called for a little side of Rusty with your breakfast this morning.” He reaches out and tugs on the sheet covering me.

I pull my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around them. “What’re you doing here?” I ask, trying to stall. I hate the way he’s looking at me.

Rusty’s smiles, a smile that reminds me of a snake-oil salesman on one of these shows Betsy watches—wide, white and entirely false.

“Tish said you wanted to trade. A one-way ticket out of this joint. Well, Rusty’s all about helping little ladies.” He leans over the bed and presses his palms onto either side of the mattress where I sit. His face hovers less than a foot from mine. I can see the dandruff around his collar, the chunk of something green between his teeth.