And I was here.
I flexed my fingers and then froze.
Footsteps close by.
My heart jumped, then steadied.I’d learned not to waste panic.Panic burned energy, and energy was something I couldn’t afford to lose.
The footsteps stopped outside the camper.I frantically grabbed the rope and wrapped it around my wrists.
The door swung open so hard it slammed into the wall, rattling the thin frame.
One of the men stood in the doorway, a dark silhouette against the daylight.He still wore the mask, but it was pulled down enough that I could see most of his face.He didn’t step inside.He tossed a paper bag on the bed near my knee.“Eat,” he said.
I scrambled forward, my movement awkward and desperate with my ankles tied.“Please,” I blurted, the word tumbling out before I could stop it.“Please, just let me go.I won’t say anything.I swear.I’ll forget all of this ever happened.”My voice cracked.
He laughed.Not loud or amused.Just dismissive.“No,” he said flatly.“You’re not going anywhere.”
He stepped forward just enough that his boot crossed the threshold.I shrank back instinctively, pressing myself into the wall.
“Just shut up,” he added, his voice sharp now.“And wait.”
Then he slammed the door shut.
The sound echoed inside the camper, loud and final, and the vibration rattled my teeth.
I sat there for a moment, frozen, staring at the closed door like it might open again.
It didn’t.
Whatever was blocking it moved back into place, and then nothing.
Silence rushed back in, broken only by my breathing and the distant birds.
I swallowed hard and looked down at the paper bag.
Carefully, I picked the bag up and peeked inside.
A sandwich.
Wrapped in wax paper.Still warm.Grilled cheese.I could smell it immediately.Mild, melted, comforting in a way that almost made my eyes sting.
Of course.
Of all the things to break me, it would be a cheese sandwich.
I peeled back the paper slowly, my fingers clumsy but determined.The bread was slightly toasted, the cheese melted just enough to stick to it in soft, stretchy strands.
I stared at it.
My mom would’ve been offended.
Carnie didn’t believe in half-measures when it came to food.She cooked like she loved—loudly, generously, and without apology.Growing up, our kitchen had always smelled like spices and butter and something simmering.Meals weren’t just fuel; they were events.Proof that you were cared for.
Even now, I could picture her standing at the stove, hair pulled back, apron dusted with flour, swatting at Dad when he tried to sneak a bite before dinner was ready.
The memory hit me harder than the hunger did.
I took a bite.