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SEVENTEEN

UNKNOWN

Something slaps against the concrete floor, jolting me awake. An even louder item thuds near me, bouncing several times, before it hits the wall, rolls, and settles into place. A door slams. It sounds like it’s about ten feet above me and a little off in the distance, like a basement door at the top of a set of stairs.

“Hello?” I say cautiously to the dark room. “Is someone there?”

Loud, heavy footsteps stomp across the ceiling. They sound like work boots, the kind a man would wear at a construction site.

I search for the objects that were tossed down to me, hoping it’s food and water again. I’ve received them twice before. One I found shortly after I first woke up here. The other was tossed down a while later. I think I’m provided them each day, but I’m not sure on the timing because there’s no light. I find the object that bounced into the wall. It’s a plastic bottle. Unscrewing the cap, I smell it first, just to be sure. It smells like nothing, so I know it’s water. My throat is parched, and I chug the entire thing in seconds. Immediately, I regret drinking all of it because I’m still thirsty, and I’m not sure when I’ll get more.

Rummaging around, I find the other object. It’s about eight inches long, soft and squishy with a layer of plastic wrap on the outside. It’s a sandwich, but what kind? I peel away the plastic, and the scent of it takes over, painting a picture for me. Bread, mustard, onions, tomato, lettuce, and I think ham. The last one was roast beef, which I’m not a fan of, but I ate it anyway. Kidnappees can’t be choosers. I take a bite, confirming the meat is ham. I nearly choke from eating so fast and have to remind myself to slow down. I chew until each bite becomes a paste, and then I swallow. I really wish I hadn’t drunk all the water.

I don’t know how long I’ve been here because I mostly sleep, and when I’m not sleeping, all I can think about is how I wish I was asleep. I gave up screaming for help because no one’s come, except for whoever tosses the food and water. But they’re clearly not helping me. They’re keeping me alive, and I don’t know what for.

I searched around for a while, trying to find something that could help get me out of here. All I have to show for that is a sliver lodged in the palm of my hand. It throbs, and I’ve tried to push it and bite it out, but I can’t see it—so I guess it’s a part of me for the foreseeable future, just like the thick metal chain cuffed around my ankle.

I’m not sure who’s doing this, but I can think of at least five people who have good reason to want to hurt me.