Twenty-Eight

HIM, YELLING. ME, throwing my free arm up to block my face, trying to roll to the side before he comes down on me.

His fist slams my head, sending cascades of stars through my vision, but he’s off target—can’t see yet. I grab at the bench, trying to knock the tools down. I make contact, dragging the heavy thing to the side.

He clambers onto the cot, cursing, straddling me, one hand still pressed to his leaking eye. I scream, jerking my left leg up between us, lunging at the bench again as he draws back to hit me.

A groan of wood over wood, and tools rain down from the surface above, bouncing all over the floor and cot. This time, his fist hits me square in the mouth—lips jammed into teeth; ripe, blossoming pain; bright taste of blood—but my left hand’s latched on to a heavy metal thing, and I heave my entire body into the swing.

I catch him drawing his arm back for the next punch; he doesn’t have time to move. The hammer claw connects with his left temple. I think maybe I scream, horrified by the blood it brings, splitting his skin, splattering me, dragging across his forehead in a vivid streak.

His fist hangs in midair. No time—I sweep my arm back, hit him with the business end.

Mr. Mac’s eyes squeeze shut, contorted look of pain, and I jerk the hammer back. He doesn’t need it. Sways, eyes still closed, then slides over, a slow collapse onto the floor beside the cot.

Hyperventilating, breath sobbing out of me, I roll onto my right side, stretching my free hand for the sharpest thing I see—a hacksaw—and manage it with my fingertips.

Three saws and the zip ties on my wrist snap, then the ones on my ankle, and I’m over the cot. He’s up on one knee already, head hanging low, clinging to consciousness.

I open the closet, dragging Hazel out by her arms. She falls into me; her wrists and ankles are zip-tied. “Damn it!” I grab the hacksaw from the cot, dropping to my knees to yank the blade across the plastic binding her legs—once—twice—he’s getting up, using the cot for support.

Snap, the ties give. “Run!” I shove her at the door.

Sound of wounded rage as he comes at us, his hands dragging down my back, catching my clothes, bringing me down. Hazel’s fighting with the dead bolt—her wrists still bound—and I won’t roll over, won’t give him my face, my throat, hunching my shoulders against his blows as I crawl toward the door. Burst of fresh cold air—she’s out—fanning the radiant heat of the stove across me, so close. I see the silver coil of the burner lid handle above me, the disc-shaped surface for heating a kettle or pot.

I scream as I grab the handle, hot metal searing into my unprotected palm; then I wrench around, pressing the lid into his cheek.

He screams, pulling back. I’m on my feet and running, out the door, into overgrowth and reaching branches, where Hazel waits, terrified to leave, too afraid to go back inside.

The woods draw us in, covering our path.