Long enough for my stomach to ache with hunger, despite a brain-killing headache and the stench of garbage.
I glance down at myself. Wrists still tied, ankles now tied. My gaze drifts up to the cracked ceiling, and then back to my lower body, which feels weak and strange, like I haven’t moved in years.
I’m lying on a twin bed, on the most disgusting pale yellow bedspread I’ve ever seen in all my life. Right in front of me, pushed against a cracked yellow wall, is a rickety-looking wooden table with a chipped ceramic flower vase on top. I assume, based on the heat, that we’ve arrived in Mexico.
God, are we really in Mexico? Part of me can still see Hunter moving over me. How did this happen—and why? I think that might be the worst thing: The way I have no memory of what went down.
I summon the energy to lift my head and glance over to my right, where I find Cross lying face-down on the other bed. He looks so still. My pulse starts pounding.
“Cross?” As soon as I say it, I wish I hadn’t. I lie there for a minute, tense, waiting for Priscilla or Lockwood to burst through the warped wood door. When no one does, I try to sit up. Maybe if I kick and strain enough, I can get myself untied.
Unfortunately, I find that with my arms tied in front of me and my legs bound, plus the effects of whatever drug I’ve been given, I have no balance. I can barely even get my shoulders off the mattress.
I press my hands together and try to get some slack in the rope that’s squeezing my wrists. No luck.
Oh, God. What’s going to happen to us? What if Cross can’t wake up from this? Where is Hunter? Even thinking about him makes tears sting my eyes. I need him so much right now. What if he can’t find us?
If he can’t find us, I tell myself sternly, you will save the day. Hunter may have no idea how to reach us. I can’t wait for him. If I can just get Cross awake, he and I can try to come up with a plan. In the meantime, I shut my eyes and try to figure out Priscilla and Lockwood’s game. Is Cross’s dad in on it? Surely not. He and Cross don’t get along, but I can’t imagine him wanting to hurt his own son. So it’s just Priscilla and Lockwood.
I take a deep breath and glance back over at Cross, looking desperately for the rise and fall of his shoulders. He’s breathing, thank God, but his face seems to be pressed into a pillow. I think about the monitors Nanette had to take off of him for our field trip today. One was for his pulse, the other for his blood oxygen saturation. I forgot what the third monitored. Nanette said he really didn’t need them anymore. He’s doing extraordinarily well, but that was before this. Could these drugs make him go back into his coma?
I inhale deeply. Positive thoughts, Elizabeth. You’ll find a way out of this. I can’t really vanish into Mexico—can I?
I hear a creaking sound, and before I think to play dead, Lockwood strolls through the door. He’s wearing dirty-looking brown workman’s pants and a gray button-up shirt. He’s got on some kind of big, floppy cowboy hat, which shields most of his sunken-cheeked face. I also notice he’s wearing a gun on his belt.
Of course.
Belatedly, I want to shut my eyes, but his gaze is already on me. “What do you think?” He spreads his arms out. “You like your comfy little Mexican hideaway?”
I swallow my rage. I need to appear calm or he might put me back to sleep. “My wrists hurt,” I answer.
“I didn’t ask about your wrists. I asked about your room.” He looks up at the cracked ceiling. “Believe it or not, this is big shit in Mexico.”
“Where are we?” I ask him.
He grins, looking genuinely amused. “You think I’m telling you? All you need to know is this is where we sell ‘em. You’ll fetch a good price. He may, too,” he says, nodding at Cross’s broad back. “He’s got nice blue eyes.”
Hearing this news, I feel nothing. Maybe I’m in shock. The only thought I have is that I want to get more information from him. Not want to, have to. I have to stay in control if I want to get away.