The net stinks of fish. At first, I don’t think we can walk with it on us, but one of the scorpions grabs the edge of our net and pulls a drawstring. We bunch together as the edge closes around our legs.

The scorpion yanks us along in our net trap like it’s pulling a dog on a leash. Its stinger aims for us, hovering just within striking zone. Another scorpion walks beside us, making it clear by the rhythmic jabbing of its stinger that we should do what it wants.

I frantically look for Mom and Clara, hoping against all odds that I won’t see them.

But there they are, only two netted groups away from me. My mother clutches my teddy bear to her bosom like it’s her long-lost baby, while Clara clutches Mom’s arm like she’ll die if she lets go. They both look petrified.

I feel sick.

Sick from fear. Sick from anger. Sick from the stupidity of what I’ve done.

I came here for my sister and instead I’ve gotten myself recklessly caught. Worse, I’ve gotten Mom and Clara caught too. And looking at the large number of captives on the pier, I didn’t even free anyone either.

Several groups of netted humans converge as we’re herded toward the water. At first, I assume the scorpions are taking us to a new shipping container, but instead of a holding cell, they move us toward a boat.

“Brian!” A young woman under my net reaches her hand out to a guy trapped under another as our two groups get closer.

“Lisa!” the guy calls to her with desperation. They strain against the mesh and stretch their arms as far as they’ll go to try to touch each other.

For a second, they manage to brush fingertips.

Then our group moves past theirs, breaking their touch. The woman starts sobbing, her hand still reaching for him.

Another group gets shoved in front of Brian and he disappears into the crowd, still reaching for her.

THE BOAT is two stories high and has seen better days. The paint is so scraped that I’m convinced the boat must have been lying on its side on the roof of a ruined building before the bad guys put it to use. Somehow, it still manages to float. And it still sports the words “Captain Jake’s Alcatraz Tours” in blue, although with all the scratches, it looks more like “Alcatraz ours.”

The engine starts and we’re treated to a dark plume of exhaust. The smell of gas pollutes the air almost immediately. A human minion must be running the boat. I kind of hope it’s not Captain Jake.

Everyone gets jostled and shoved toward the boat. Scorpions begin releasing us from the nets. We have no place to run, of course, not if we want to live a few more minutes.