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I squeeze her tense body in the darkness. I can imagine that fear all too well. The nighttime water, her dread as the boats headed out to sea.

“I decided to just stay hidden under the fishing nets and hope that nobody found me.” Lucky shivers.

“But then I realized the triads were using the nets to disguise the drugs. I knew I had to get out or be found, so I slipped into the water and swam around to the front of the boat. That’s when Jacey saw me. ”

My heart trips, then slowly resumes beating again.

“I didn’t know who he was, of course.” Her voice shakes slightly.

“Not at first. He was standing on the bow of the yacht, smoking, staring down into the water. When I came to the surface, we were looking directly at each other. Then he just pulled out his gun and aimed it straight at me, like it was nothing, like I didn’t matter at all.

The look in his eyes... so dead, like a fish left out on the shore too long.

I couldn’t move. I could hardly breathe. ”

Cold horror trickles down my spine.

I know that feeling. I know that look.

“Then a man shouted from the rear of the boat. Their navigation system had crashed, and he couldn’t fix it.

Jacey was still pointing his gun at me, his finger tightening on the trigger, and somehow I found my voice.

I blurted out that I was a computer programmer.

That I could fix his system, if he let me.

” She draws a deep breath, trembling beside me.

“I did fix it,” she says, her voice a thready whisper.

“But that was the last time I saw Thailand. When I woke up, I was on the Moei River, on a barge. Then I came here, to SK, and they put me to work coding fake sites. I’ve never seen Jacey face-to-face again. ” She shivers. “I hope I never do.”

I don’t want to despair. I know from bitter experience that despair never helps anything.

But every word from Lucky sends me further into the darkness.

Don’t think about the future. About him.

Some shadows are too dark to dwell on. Even here.

Especially here.

Lucky touches my face. “I will let you sleep,” she whispers. “I am sorry for what happened to you, Abby. Truly.”

I hug her tightly for a long time. “No more sorrys, okay? Not ever. We’re all here now, Lucky. In the same boat.” I squeeze her hard. “And we have each other. We’re family. Deal?”

“Family.” She gives me a watery smile. “That’s nice.” She squeezes my hand back. “Deal.”

Despite the pain and exhaustion wracking my body, I lie awake for a long time after she goes back to her own bunk, staring into the darkness, thinking of the shadows I ran from for so long.

I’d been waiting for those shadows ever since Juan Cardenas got me out of that Bogotá prison. And in the last few months before I left Spain, when I heard the rumors of Juan’s death, I felt them closing in.

Why the fuck didn’t I just tell Dimitry the truth then?

I touch my wrist, the place where until recently a faded old friendship bracelet remained.

It was the only memento I took with me when I left, a souvenir from a sparkling, sun-filled week we’d all spent up at Roman’s finca, when Darya and I made bracelets with his children.

I managed to drop it on the ground in the old mining camp, a breadcrumb left in the vain hope that someone might come looking for me one day.

Now I just wish I’d kept it, to remind myself that kind of happiness exists.

Though, if I’m honest, now that I’ve had time to think, that blissful week has been left tarnished by the things I chose not to say. By the questions that must now remain forever unanswered.

Would Dimitry and I have had a chance if I’d spoken up back then?

I’ve asked myself that question so many times it’s worn a painful groove in my brain titled useless regrets . And the truth is that if I was back in the same situation now, I’m still not sure I would do anything differently.

I wanted to be honest, but the more entwined my life and Dimitry’s became, the more complicated it all seemed. I was so damned happy when I was with him that I didn’t want to risk ruining it.

And besides, it wasn’t just me who avoided talking about the future.

No, Abby. I shift restlessly on my bunk. You don’t get to blame Dimitry for this.

I didn’t exactly make it easy for him.

I never made it easy for anyone.

Maybe that’s what hurts the most. The realization that I’ve spent so long blaming others for my problems. If there’s one thing the prolonged months of confinement have taught me, it’s to take responsibility for my own actions.

I blamed Dimitry for being bratva, just like I spent my teenage years blaming my parents for the life they’d chosen. The reality is that the only person I was really angry at was myself.

And then I ran away. From anyone who ever truly mattered to me.

God, what I’d do for a bottle of wine and a packet of cigarettes right now.

Any more of this self-examination shit and I’m going to go insane.

I roll over impatiently before remembering the battered state of my body, then bite down on my lip to stop myself crying out.

Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Abby , I tell myself sternly. I, of all people, know that prison can be a whole lot fucking worse than a bed and a decent meal every day, even if I have to take a few brutal runs to stay alive. Suck it up and stop complaining.

I stare up into the darkness, sleep evading me, horribly aware that my chances of working effectively tomorrow are diminishing with every moment of insomnia.

Which means I’ll probably be running the Loop yet again.

Well, Abby, at least if you ever get out of here, you’ll have buns of fucking steel.