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Nell blinked past the blurriness in her eyes and examined her unfamiliar surroundings as her mind fought to recognize the room.

She’d had the same sensation many times after waking from a drunken, nightmare-filled slumber in her bedroom, only to calm down when she recognized her pink walls.

This time, however, she really didn’t know where she was.

She was in a bed with a too-thin mattress and curled up fetal style under a comforter that smelled like cigarettes. The wall was pasted with posters for AC/DC, Judas Priest, and dozens of other rock bands.

She might have connected the dots quicker, but her mind was sluggish and her eyes were stuffed with cotton.

What painted in the rest of this confusing picture was the long, lean form sprawled down on the floor, sandwiched between two thin blankets, snoring softly face-down with hair spread around it on a flimsy pillow.

Her eyes widened.

Had she fallen asleep here? Last she remembered, she was leaning back against the sofa, talking, looking at the ceiling, and then . . .

Had he carried her in here?

Somehow, through her sluggish mind, the thought forced an amused huff from her. Barrett wasn’t exactly built like a football player or bodybuilder. To imagine those arms carrying her in there . . . He’d probably had to drag her, which made it more amusing.

At least she’d retained some of the good mood even if the high had worn off in her sleep.

His snoring halted, and she snapped her mouth shut.

Her amusement shrank into humiliation.

Marijuana wasn’t the same as being drunk.

It was delayed, but the memories pieced themselves together without much work. Especially her poor choice of confessions.

How could she have let herself tell him all that? About KC, about herself ?

No one knew that.

She had prayed to God, time and time again, to help fix her before she realized it wasn’t going away. Then she’d tried repenting, begging for forgiveness. Eventually, she’d just accepted her sin and promised to keep it to herself forever and ever.

And now this .

Scott Barrett knew.

She barely knew him.

He might have been nice enough to sell to her, watch over her, and carry her into his bedroom to sleep, but did she trust him to keep his mouth shut?

She was already considered a freak in this town. Did she need to give them all another reason to chew her up and spit her out?

God, what had she done?

She buried her face into her hands and tried to take deep, soothing breaths so she could recollect control of her leftover grogginess and figure out her next steps.

The quickest conclusion she came to was that she couldn’t stay there. Kindness or not, she had no idea what Barrett would do when he remembered what she’d said. She knew what other people would do if he decided to tell them.

She shifted the comforter off herself. The bed squeaked on aged springs, and she froze, fearing she’d wake Barrett.

But his black lashes remained shut, oblivious to the sound. This was her only chance to get up and out before her luck ran dry.

On the tips of her toes, she lifted from the bed frame so slowly that she managed to make only a few soft creaks—not with any help from her grace.

She tiptoed out that door as quickly as she could.

She was glad she’d had the sense to leave her shoes by the door.

She was about to step outside when a small picture caught her eye.

Or rather, a print of a landscape painting sitting on a pile of mail on the kitchen counter, in the form of a postcard with the words Wish you were here in a rolling scrawl.

It looked just like the type of landscapes Sam loved to paint, just like the ones she had hung all around her bedroom.

That familiar itching in Nell’s fingers was back, and despite her lack of time, she risked the slight detour to snatch it from the counter, fold it, and shove it in her pocket before she rushed out the door and down the sodden steps to her bike, which was slick with a thin layer of morning dew.

She swung herself over the damp seat and ignored the uncomfortable, cold wetness that soaked through her back pockets as she rode that bike home furiously. Her legs begged to give out.

Panting heavily, she longed for the relief of knowing she didn’t have to face Barrett again, but riding farther from him didn’t help. She’d hoped that running away and hiding forever would fix her problems, but he was a near stranger and he held her deepest, darkest secret in the palm of his hand.

She was at the mercy of a satanic, guitar-playing drug dealer.

Would he tell his friends? Would they laugh at her? Would they hunt her down and burn her at the stake, just like in her worst nightmares?

Was the high worth the fall?

Her lungs throbbed as she pedaled up the hill to her house. The peak was in sight. Her roof came into view over the tops of fir trees. Next, she could see the pristine lawn, then the red brick, then the . . .

Two black and white squad cars stole the empty space in front of her garage. Nell’s rapid pulse froze as her legs stilled, but the bike continued to drift closer.

Cars like those showed up in her nightmares.

Chills of dread speckled her skin, and she dropped her bike on the edge of the lawn and bolted to the front door, a spike of horror tainting her previous worries.

Cars like those showed up when death was around.

She burst through the front door, her breath coming out in wheezing gasps as she prepared herself for the worst.

She searched the entryway for blood or glass, or anything else, but it was empty—as perfectly untouched as it was when she left it.

“Janelle?”

She recognized the pitchy, panicked tone of her mother’s voice. Footsteps met her halfway, and Nell was faced with four worried faces rushing at her from the living room.

Her mother’s eyes were puffy and red, her father donned an uncharacteristic five o’clock shadow, and two uniformed officers scanned her over like they expected to find something wrong.

“What’s wrong?” Nell barely recognized her own voice. It was squeaky and high, and choked on a sob she hadn’t noticed. Nothing made sense. “What’s wrong?”

“Thank the Lord, you’re alright.” Her mother grabbed her and pulled her into her arms, and Nell found herself staring into the pink cotton of a blouse.

“We were worried to death. We had no idea where you were. I about had a heart attack when I realized you weren’t in your room,” she wailed, and it ricocheted in Nell’s empty head.

Pieces connected slowly, one at a time, as her shell-shocked mind crashed down from the terror of seeing those cars again.

She worked through it like a four-year-old sounded out words.

No. One. Is. Hurt.

No. One. Is. Gone.

They. Are. Okay.

They. Are. Alive.

“Where were you?” Her father’s voice echoed a few times before she made out the words.

She unburied her face from her mother’s blouse and met her father’s eyes. The image moved like it wasn’t real.

Maybe she was still dreaming, asleep on Barrett’s bed and winding down from her high.

“Where were you?” he repeated.

Or maybe it was still an echo. She couldn’t tell.

“I’m okay.”

“Nellie, baby, what happened? Why did you leave without telling us?” Her mom petted her hair with gentle, trembling hands. “You can’t do that.”

Nell blinked. She glanced from her mother to her father, to the officers who shared a quizzical look.

“I’m sorry.” It was barely a whisper.

“Oh, my sweet baby,” her mother cooed, and Nell accepted it because she could barely react. “Thank the Lord you’re okay.”

After that, everything became muffled. She could see her father talking to the officers, quietly suggesting that this incident didn’t need to be mentioned to anyone else, and watched them shake hands and leave. She could feel her mother grab her arm and walk her to her bedroom.

Like she was outside her own body, Nell watched herself close the door, take off her shoes, and crawl under her covers.

It was the only safe place she knew. This small sanctuary where she could curl in a ball under her sheets and block out the world. Nothing could touch her there.

Just memories.

But even those could be withheld with the right tools.

It was unfortunate that the most effective tool she’d encountered was the one Barrett had given her, and she had given herself no choice but to run from it. She would have to make do.

She closed her eyes.

No. One. Is. Hurt.

No. One. Is. Gone.

They. Are. Okay.

They. Are. Alive.

* * *

Her blurry eyes and cotton mouth were what forced her out of bed in the evening.

Her mother had come in at some point, said something about food, then left.

Nell had no appetite, though. She just wanted to feel something different than the brush of her wrinkled comforter against her skin, so she rose and walked to her ensuite bathroom.

Shedding her clothes, she took care to check her pocket for the postcard she’d stolen. It was still bundled nicely in the cloth, waiting patiently to be taken out.

She gently held it up and unfolded it to get a better look, but as she did, a small bundle of cash fell out.

Nell blinked as it scattered on the ground, trying to recall where it had come from. She bent to pick it up and stared at it, counting the bills, until realization hit as she calculated the amount.

This wasn’t her money. Or rather, it wasn’t supposed to be. Not anymore.

She’d grabbed the bills last night from her allowance piggy bank before she snuck from her house and rode her bike to Barrett. This was supposed to have been his double payment for the drugs.

Amid her high and subsequent recoil, she’d forgotten to give it to him.

She groaned and buried tired eyes into the bottom of her palm.

Her options were to pretend it didn’t exist and risk retaliation, or face Barrett again.

What was worse? Her parents finding out her secret and hating her forever, or begging Barrett to show her mercy?

She set both the cash and Sam’s postcard on the bathroom counter as a reminder that she needed to decide eventually. She turned the shower water as hot as it would go and entered the steamy downpour.

She returned to the room right after, moving the two items into their respective places—the postcard in the shoebox under her bed, and the cash on her bedside table. Wearing nothing but her undergarments, she climbed into the covers, ready to face the onslaught of nightmares.