“Come here.” He pulls me by the elbow, making it bend and stretch unnaturally until I stand. A new pain shoots up my shoulder and I hold in a whimper and scurry closer to him to relieve the pain. That’s two injuries in the first few minutes. I need to pay better attention or he might break something.

My eyes finally open, though they are so heavy from the drugs I can only see a sliver of my surroundings. He tugs me along, making me stumble, but I recover fast because he will not slow down if I fall. He will drag me, and if I get hurt in the process, that’s my own damn fault.

I’ve played this game many times.

So I keep up and try to pay attention. I listen for sounds—birds mostly. But I can hear the whine of a small airplane engine too. Smells—now that I’m out of the closet, the mice and mildew have been replaced with the smell of a farm. Sight. The furniture is not the same. It’s all different. Gone are the tattered couches and scuffed wood tables and chairs. The floor out here is tile. New. The windows have curtains and aren’t covered in boards.

I can see the sun.

“They’re electrified,” he says. “If you try to go out the window, you’ll be shocked.”

I say nothing. I’m not allowed to talk until I’m asked a question. At least that’s how it was last time.

And even though this asshole is not going to get me to agree to his sick fantasy again, I look up at his masked face, gasp in surprise because it’s the Invisible Man and not some kid I knew from archery camp, but catch myself and nod in agreement.

This is not good. He knows about Vaughn. That’s the only reason he’s wearing that mask.

“Sit.” He points to a chair at the kitchen table, which is not the old chipped Formica with rusty metal chairs, but a new one made of glass. The chairs are trendy molded plastic. Something you might find in a high-end retro store.

“I have a good job,” he says, noticing me notice the furniture. “I told you I’d be back and we’d live happily ever after.”

No. That’s not what he said.

I take a seat in the chair. He didn’t say that.

“You didn’t want to go, remember?”

“I was sick.”

He slaps me in the head, this time not quite as hard. “You were not sick. You agreed to all of it.”

“I was sick,” I repeat, and he smacks me across the mouth this time. I taste blood, but I don’t care. I spit it out and the red stains the pristine white tiled floor. “You brainwashed me.” Another smack. More blood. “Go ahead,” I tell him, all the inner warnings now absent. “Kill me if you want.” And then I look him in the eyes. He’s not wearing the Invisible Man goggles so I can see past the mask enough to discern that his eyes are dark brown. I see a part of an eyebrow, and that too is brown. That’s more than I ever saw with that other mask he wore years ago. That one was tight against his face. This one is looser.

Eyes brown. Hair, probably brown. Maybe six feet tall. Less than two hundred pounds. Skinny, actually. Birds are singing, a small plane can fly overhead, and we’re on a farm.

I make my checklist.

This is how I got through the years after I came home. Checklists. I organized everything around me. Took notice of everything. I practiced closing my eyes so I could remember the way a place sounds. I noticed the little things. I saw the details.

And I planned.

Because even though I don’t remember him saying he’d come back for me, I must’ve known it all along. A man does not kidnap you, keep you prisoner for eight months, and then let you go with no intention of returning.

I knew he was coming.

And I’m ready.

I took self-defense. I learned how to shoot a handgun. I took yoga to help me stay calm. I studied the geography of the Midwest, because even though I never knew where I was, I knew I was on a farm. One that had both cattle and crops. He came in smelling like them both at times. Sweat and soil. That’s what he used to smell like.

He smelled like it when he stole me, and he smells like it now.

He might not have changed much, but I’m as different as the furniture in this house and there’s no way I’m going down without a fight. It took me years to reclaim my mind after he warped it with his talk of a demented future where I’d be his wife and we’d live out our lives together in marital bliss. And if he thinks—

I’m smacked to the floor with a hard fist across my mouth. More blood.

“I know what you’re thinking, Daisy. And I don’t like it. Get up.”

I can’t get up, my fucking hands are bound behind my back. He knows this, but he rolls me a little with his boot. “I said get the fuck up.”

I wiggle around until I can roll over and get to my knees, then I rock forward and stand, my leg muscles straining to lift me up without the use of my hands.

“Sit,” he barks.

I sit again. And then he plops a laptop down in front of me.

“You are a disgusting whore, Daisy.” He points to my Twitter account. “Password.”

Is this a battle I need to fight? I’m not sure, but the blood is still dripping down my face, so I decide that’s a big no. If he wants to play around on my Twitter, more power to him. “My friends will all know it’s not me.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that. It’s you. Password.”

I turn my head up so I can meet his half-hidden eyes again. “My password is ‘I heart Vaughn Asher.’” He grits his teeth, clenches his jaw. I’ll probably be hit again for that, but I don’t care. “The heart is a less-than sign and a three.”

He types it in and pulls up my profile, then gives me a sidelong glance. “We’re gonna cure that affliction right now. Break up with him.”

What?

“Give me a Filthy Blue Bird-worthy tweet that will let him, and the police, know that you left of your own volition and don’t want to be bothered. One. Tweet. And it better do the job, because if the police come here, I’ll kill both of us. I will never let you leave again. I told you back when I let you go, you are mine. I always mean what I say.”

And then he stares at me so hard and for so long without blinking, I have to turn my head away.

“You have one minute.”

I drop my head and stretch my neck. God, that feels good. I do it again and I can almost feel his anger. A clock is ticking on the wall, and I count those seconds as I imagine the thin hand sweeping around the center, counting down to my captor’s next act of violence.