I swallow. “Okay.”
I walk toward the convenience store, sneakers grinding against the loose gravel parking lot. Each step sends up small, dry whispers of sound that seem louder than they should in the flat afternoon quiet. The building itself looks tired.
The glass door is a mess of overlapping fingerprints and smudged handprints, as though dozens of people have pressed against it in a hurry and never quite made it all the way through. When I push it open, a small brass bell above the frame jangles once, sharp and cheerful, the sound clashing with everything else around me.
A wave of warm, stagnant air rolls out to meet me, carrying the mingled scents of day-old coffee, sugary glaze from yesterday’s donuts, industrial floor cleaner, and something faintly sour underneath it all. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting a sickly yellow pallor over the narrow aisles.
Behind the counter, a clerk in a faded polo shirt sits slouched on a tall stool, thumb scrolling endlessly across the screen of his phone. He doesn’t lift his eyes when I enter. His face stays blank, lit only by the cold blue glow from below. I keep my head down, hood pulled low, shoulders hunched just enough to make myself smaller, less worth noticing. My pulse is already climbing, thudding against the base of my throat in a rhythm that feels too loud, too fast.
I tell myself it’s only nerves. Just the ordinary static of being out in the open again.
Everything feels edged with threat after you’ve been taken once. Every shadow holds a shape that might move. Every stranger’s glance feels like reconnaissance.
The hallway is too narrow, the walls too close. My elbows nearly brush both sides as I move. The silence presses in, broken only by the low electrical hum and the distant clink of the clerk setting his phone down.
My heart is hammering now, hard enough that I can feel it in my fingertips, in the roof of my mouth. I force one slow breath through my nose, then another.
It’s just a bathroom. Just a door. Just a minute to splash water on my face and pull myself together.
I reach out, palm flat against the cool metal, and push the door open.
The light flickers. The mirror is spotted. The lock on the stall looks flimsy. I pee as fast as my body will allow, washing my hands like that will wash off the feeling crawling over my skin. I stare at my reflection and my own eyes look too big.
I whisper to myself, “You are fine.” I leave the restroom and step into the hallway.
Something shifts. Not a sound exactly. More like the air changes. I freeze.
A man stands near the end of the hallway. He is not the clerk. He is not in a uniform. He wears a dark hoodie and a baseball cap pulled low.
My stomach drops. I know that shape. My body recognizes him before my brain catches up. The same build. The same stance. The same calm menace. The same kind of nothing in the face when someone has already decided you are an object.
My mouth goes dry. I take a step backward without thinking. The man takes a step forward. My heart slams against my ribs.No.Not again.
I turn to run. A hand clamps over my mouth from behind. My scream turns into a muffled choke. My body goes instantly rigid. Panic explodes in my chest. A second arm locks around my torso, crushing the air out of me. My mind flashes white.
The smell of sweat and cheap detergent fills my nose. My vision blurs. My legs kick. I stomp down hard, heel landing on something solid. A grunt. The grip tightens.
I bite down as hard as I can and my teeth sink into his skin.
The man swears, but he does not let go. Instead, something sharp presses into my side through the hoodie.
I stop fighting for one second because my brain screams at me that fighting will get me stabbed.
A voice hisses in my ear. “Be good. Be quiet.”
I shake my head, tears burning hot. I try to pull air in through my nose. I can. Barely.
Footsteps approach. The man in the hallway appears in front of us now, blocking the path back to the store. He’s smiling. A slow, ugly smile. “You made it real easy,” he says.
My stomach flips. I try to scream again, but the hand over my mouth presses harder. My eyes dart toward the store entrance. If I could get to the main area, if I could knock over a display, if I could make noise…
The man holding me drags me backward. Toward a side door I did not notice.
My heels scrape the floor. My hoodie rides up. Cold air hits my lower back as the door opens. The winter air slams into my face. The parking lot is too bright. Too open.
Ozzy is still at the pump. He’s facing the road. He’s not looking at me.
My entire body surges with desperation. I twist hard, trying to jerk my head enough to make noise. The grip around me tightens like a vice.