Miranda stole a look over his shoulder at the article he was reading, eager to get some glimpse of the outside world. A photo of Janet Jackson, sweaty and looking down at her chest, standing next to Justin Timberlake accompanied the headline CONTINUED CONTROVERSY OVER SUPPOSED WARDROBE MALFUNCTION DURING SUPERBOWL HALFTIME SHOW. The man grunted disapprovingly and her eyes darted frantically in his direction. His dark eyes were still scanning the page. Oh, thank God! she thought. That grunt was about Janet, not me. Maybe after all this time of dutiful obedience he was getting comfortable with them, letting his guard down. This was her chance; she was really going to do it this time. That morning she’d found the words, ‘You can’t beat the person who won’t give up’ scratched into the wall in the corner of their room. She’d had to stretch her chain as far as it would go to make out what it said but the words had stuck with her, replaying over and over in her mind. She’d thought about this cast iron skillet for weeks, the only thing he let them handle that could be used as a weapon. He kept his keys on the table when she made his food, so that part would be easy. As the pan heated on top of the flame, she tested it with her finger until it was just right, then quietly turned off the burner.

‘The burner won’t light,’ she said looking back at him.

He pulled the corner of the paper aside and looked at her over the top of the pages. His thick eyebrows pulled together. He exhaled, annoyed, and rose from the chair. She gripped the handle so tight her knuckles turned white, and when he was within striking distance she swung the pan through the air and slammed it into his face with a loud thwak. She’d underestimated the weight of the pan and overestimated the strength in her groggy arms. It didn’t hit him as hard as she’d hoped but his head snapped back. Stunned, he grabbed his cheek and stumbled a few steps away from her. She dropped the pan and lunged for the keys. He screamed out, pain and anger reverberating through the air. Tripping over his chair, he landed heavily on the ground. Miranda took the opportunity to make a break for the front door, yanking it open. The sunlight blinded her and she pulled her arm up to shield her face. She could barely make out the outline of his car and a gravelly path next to it. Knowing she didn’t have much time she shuffled in that direction, the shackles around her ankles making it difficult to run. He was still screaming from the kitchen. As her eyes adjusted to the outside world she saw the dense forest surrounding her.

‘I’m coming for you, Fourteen!’ erupted not far behind her.