I don’t dream again.

I don’t sleep.

I sit with my back against the headboard, the sketchbook at the foot of my bed, all thoughts of trying to escape vanished. There is no escape.

I watch the sketchbook.

Wait for it to flood.

Wait for something, anything, to happen.

I wait until sunrise, until I hear my parents start their morning routine, until the birds are singing and it feels safe.

I know it isn’t safe.

Especially because the moment I let my eyes flutter closed, just for a moment, my cell phone begins to buzz with texts.

The cell phone that I know I turned off last night.

Every text reads the same.

Every text is from Rachel, and I know I blocked her number months ago.