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  Another day has passed. I hope and pray my husband will come find me. He has to come. He can’t leave me here like this. He is my only hope. I must sit and wait. He will come. I know he will come.

  “Mike!” I plead, as if he can hear me.

  I’m just an ordinary person, not someone rich. My husband cannot hire a private detective. I’m not someone with influential friends. There will be no substantial ransom posted on my behalf. If I am missing, my profiles will not set aside world, national, or local news reports. I’m just a regular person.

  I can’t imagine what this man would want or need with me. I cannot understand why I am here or what will happen. The worst scenarios run rapidly through my mind. I try to replace them with thoughts of home, my husband, and my children. I need to be home with them, not here in chains. This is no place to be, no way to live.

  I am in deep despair. How much longer will this go on? I am lonely and anxious as I sit bonded with the wind blowing leaves against the cabin. The air whistles through the weathered planks. I rotate positions on the blanket, standing frequently to keep my body from stiffening. I pull my knees to my chest and rock myself to bring myself comfort. My actions are futile. Nothing I do calms me. The silence is eerie. All I can think about is how much I want to be home right now.

  I see the shadowy figure again.

  “Hello?” my shaky voice echoes.

  I must be seeing a ghost of the forest outside. The image must not be real. Who would pass by and not respond to my voice? Not help? I am becoming delusional in my solitary confinement.

  Feelings of shame seize me, total contaminated shame that I allowed this to happen. I try to reason with myself, but the shame quickly seeps through me. I'm not sure what or whom to pray for: my safety or my family's peace of mind. I start making deals with God if I ever get out. I am chained and frail. However, I am lucky no major harm has come to me.

  No one comes knocking at the small cabin door. I listen for the smallest critter to scratch its way in, but nothing. I look from left to right and over my shoulder. Nothing is stirring in the light of day or the still dark night. There is only the sound of a busy beetle tapping on the wall. From the forest outside, I can hear an owl screeching its call in the middle of the night. The crickets are playing their song while the dew drops fall. No one comes knocking as I endure this confinement.

  Chapter 6: Liz

  I wake to the morning light shining through the murky window. I feel stomach acid bubbling in my tummy. I stand to find a large flask of water and chug down as much water as I can. The volcano of acid is beginning to erupt at the top of my esophagus. I make my way to the toilet but struggle as I drag my chain sluggishly across the floor. I trip over a protruding floorboard and catch myself with my hands to avoid landing on my face. The watery, acidic volcano erupts before I make it to the toilet, leaving my stomach contents on the floor. There is nothing to clean the mess. I feel dizzy as I crawl back to the blanket.

  The day passes in misery as my thoughts cling to my kids, fretting about the worst things happening at home in my absence. I try to assure myself; my husband is home and my sisters will be helping. They will be dropping by to cater to my children’s every whim. Perhaps the kids are looking at this as a vacation from Mom’s nagging to do the chores.

  I feel the heat of the cabin move from one side to the other as the day progresses, turning into late afternoon. I listen to every natural screech and crack of the wooden structure. I soon hear a soft tap on the rooftop followed by another, and another. They are raindrops. Refreshing raindrops. Outside, a soft, comforting rain falls. The rhythm increases rapidly and thunder clashes overhead. Water quickly begins trickling from small gaps in the roof. I do not mind because I love summer rainstorms. My mind drifts to thoughts of being home.

  The drops of water start to sound like rocks tumbling on the roof. The opening of the cabin door abruptly interrupts my thoughts. The man who chained me is standing in the doorway, holding a rifle. He cocks it, as if ready to fire. Caught completely off guard, I scream hysterically. This is the last thing I imagined would happen. The man swiftly searches the cabin with his rifle leading the way.

  "You'll be all right, ma’am. We have the place surrounded," he says in a monotone voice.

  The cabin door remains ajar. I crane my neck, trying to see the other side of the cabin door, wondering who has the cabin surrounded. Could it be a search and rescue team?

  The man lifts the butt of his rifle to break the glass from its window frame.

  "Take cover, ma’am!" he yells.

  The man fires four shots out the window. I stand to discover he is shooting into the tall pines and aspens, into nothingness. Repeatedly, he orders me to get down. He reloads the rifle.

  The rain continues to pelt down on the rooftop.

  "We’re being ambushed. My men must have been taken out."

  I'm baffled. Ambushed? Men? Who is this guy talking about? What is this guy talking about? None of this makes any sense.

  "It's just the two of us," I whisper. Am I wrong?

  Rain flies through the window. Water blows in from the open door. The man rolls across the floor to kick the door closed. He quickly stands upright to guard the door. Sweat floods down his forehead to his cheeks.

  My eyes fixate on the man, not comprehending what is taking place.

  I say, "It sounds like bullets on the rooftop, huh?”

  He yells through his clenched teeth, "They are bullets!”

  I don’t move. I’m frozen. He thinks the raindrops are bullets. I’m afraid one wrong move will get me a bullet between my eyes. He may turn the rifle on himself while I’m still confined in chains.

  I keep my hands out so he can see them. I move slowly as the wind blows more drops of water through the window, closer to me. The man thinks I am in the range of a bullet. I slowly reach out a hand to catch a drop of rain and rub the water between my fingers.

  "Look, it is just water," I say gently.

  I show him my fingertips as I slowly lean over. The chains rattle as I reach. I touch another.

  "See, just water. There are no bullets; just water." My voice remains gentle and calm.

  I hold my wet hand out to him as if he is a small child. He appears terrified, like a small child in a thunderstorm. I try to coax him closer and have him feel the moisture in my hands. I assure him it is all right to feel my hand. He looks at my fingers as if they are saturated in blood. Then, he moves his hand out slowly to touch my wet fingertips.

  "See; just water. There are no bullets on the floor; just water," I say gently.

  His eyes do not waver from my fingertips as he gains clarity.

  Tears swiftly stream down his face as he bursts into tears. My captor sobs in a way I have never seen my husband, father, or any man cry before. He is sobbing like a scared child before me. His grip is so tight on the rifle that I could not pry it from his grasp if I tried.

  "Do you have a safety on that rifle?" I ask.

  The man looks down at the rifle, then bobs his head up and down.

  “Put the safety on,” I urge.

  He does not comply with my request immediately. He remains silent, repeatedly shifting his eyes around the cabin before clicking the safety into place with noticeable apprehension. I feel myself breathe again.

  We are both on our knees as I continue to speak, consoling him.

  "It's all right. It's a summer rainstorm. We’re not in harm’s way. We’re safe.”

  Suddenly, he sets the gun down, then lunges at me. I fear he is going to hurt me, so I stiffen upright, my eyes widening. I am mentally prepared to fight, yet, I do nothing as I realize his intent isn’t to hurt me, but to wrap his arms around me. He cries into my shoulder. I wrap my chain-clad arms around his waist in an attempt to stabilize us both. He sobs uncontrollably as I try to keep my balance on my knees. I make quiet hushing sounds with my lips, just as I would to calm down a child after a bad dream.

  In be
tween his sobs, I hear him whisper with remorse in my ear, "I'm sorry, so sorry.”

  The rain slows in a rhythmic pitter-patter. He wipes his tears as he stands. The man walks toward the door and locks it behind him. I remain clad in chains inside the drenched, musty cabin in the aftermath of his storm. I feel more confused and anxious.

  Chapter 7: Jake

  I walk to Grandpap’s cabin as the sun rises. I am feeling refreshed, calm, and ready to speak with Liz. I left her for a few days while I slept. I do not know what to expect once I open the door. Will she cower in the corner rather than face me? I wouldn’t blame her if she did.

  I carefully unbolt the lock, which was originally meant to keep the door securely closed in unexpected weather or to keep out an unwanted varmint, not hold a human captive. If my grandpap were alive now, I know he would be so ashamed of what I have done, but not more perturbed than I already am with myself.

  I open the door to find Liz asleep on the blanket with the pillow crumpled under her head. Her hair looks like straw. The dirt on her face is tear-stained streaks. Instead of pulling the wrench out of my back pocket to loosen the bolt to set her free, I sit on the floor next to her and watch every breath she takes as she sleeps. It is too late to turn the clock back now. I have done a terrible thing.

  Liz sleeps another hour as I watch her take in every breath. She wakes with her back to me, weeping. At first, I thought she was still asleep, having a bad dream, until she rolls over to find me watching her. Startled, she sits upright and wipes the tears from her checks with the sleeve of her sweatshirt.

  "Why are you crying?" I ask. The stupidest question I could start the day with.

  "I'm crying because I am waking up again to the reality of my dreadful life. I don't like it one bit. I don't even know what day it is. I don’t know where I am. I don’t know what is going on. I don’t know what you want from me and I don't know how much longer I can exist in chains. I feel like an animal!" she screams while banging her fisted hands on the floor.

  "It's Saturday," I say. Her eyes bulge as I reveal this fact. "You slept for a few days while I got some things done and then, well, I needed to sleep. I kept you in this cabin for your safety."

  "My safety?" she yells through clenched teeth, extremely irate. "My safety?" she repeats furiously, looking puzzled and extremely heated.

  "If you went out that cabin door on your own, you wouldn't be able to survive the elements. Not many people can," I explain. "Well, at least not without the proper provisions.”

  This explanation doesn’t help appease her enraged disposition.

  "This isn't some old farm cabin I'm being held in? We’re not in some old rundown neighborhood?”

  "No. We're not on a farm and we’re definitely not close to any city limits. I use this old cabin for storage. The chain is used for pulling things."

  She attempts to lift the heavy chain. I notice it’s difficult for her. I stand, remove the wrench from my back pocket, and loosen the bolt holding the chain to the post.

  "How are you doing that?" she asks as if she has never seen how to operate a wrench before, so I begin to explain the basic mechanics of a wrench.

  She blurts out, "I don't mean, how are you using the wrench? I know how a wrench works,” she says scornfully. “I mean, how are you able to loosen that massive bolt so easily?"

  I shrug and continue to loosen the other bolts and clamps on her wrists. “I’ve always been strong. It’s just the way I am.”

  "I have spent almost every waking moment in this shack trying to loosen those bolts. My fingernails all broke and began bleeding, but you whisk in here and get the bolts undone within seconds.”

  Rather than standing right away, she remains crouched on all fours.

  I gather the chain to coil around my shoulder and arm like a garden hose. I set the wound chain in the back corner of the cabin as Liz makes her way to the toilet. I notice remnants of a questionable mess not far from the toilet on the floor.

  "Have you been throwing up a lot while you've been in here or are you making yourself throw up?" I ask, deeply concerned.

  "It’s just stomach acid in the morning. It's no big deal. I just couldn't quite make it to the toilet a few times. That chain is a much bigger hindrance for me than it obviously is to you. No, I do not try to make myself throw up. It just happens. It's an acid reflux problem I have.”

  Liz looks depleted.

  "I didn't leave you any food that would have given you heartburn or an upset stomach.”

  "No kidding. You left me the blandest things I've ever tasted. The splinters from the floor boards or the feathers in the pillow began to seem more tantalizing than what was hung in the satchel."

  "Glad you kept them high and not down on the floor with you. That would have attracted unwanted mice or even a raccoon.” I fling the satchels over my shoulder.

  "It's good to see you drank all the water, but you may be a little dehydrated from the vomiting. Let’s get you some fresh water from the main cabin.”

  I motion Liz to follow me out the door. I want to help her stand, but I don’t think she wants me within close proximity to her at the moment, so I keep my distance.

  "Come on,” I plead. “I have plenty of hot water for you to take a bath or a shower...whatever you prefer."

  She clasps her hands together, ecstatic at my gesture. "Yessss!"

  Liz walks into the daylight, zipping her gray hoodie. She leaves her one shoe behind next to the pillow. Liz breathes in the fresh mountain air, and then runs. I let her run. She is not fast and she struggles in the loose dirt, wearing only her anklet socks. The distance she makes quite frankly impresses me, but when she veers off the main road into the trees, I panic.

  "No! Not that way!" I bellow.

  She ignores me and doesn't look back. Liz must have had an adrenaline rush from stepping out into the fresh air, searching for an escape. She runs faster and further through the tall pine trees. I drop the satchels to run after her before she reaches the electric fence surrounding the property.

  When I am in within inches of grabbing her, I leap, pinning her to the ground. She is panting, sweating, and out of breath. I straddle her at the waist, keeping her hands pinned above her head, waiting for her to stop fighting me.

  "You don't want to go that way,” I say calmly as I stare down at her tear streaked, grimy face. “Especially not the way you're dressed and definitely not empty handed."

  Liz is not listening. There is too much ferocity in her eyes. She stiffens, and then begins sobbing heavily under my weight.

  "I'd rather be out there than be chained like an animal!”

  I want to tell her I'm sorry and wipe away her tears. I want to pull her into me and hold her. I did not see it as chaining her up like an animal. I feel as though I have captured a butterfly, trapping her so her beauty could not escape or be harmed.

  “I won’t chain you or lock you up again, ever. I promise.”

  Liz glares at me in utter disbelief. I don’t blame her animosity. I don’t know what to expect.

  I release my grip. She rolls from her back to sit crisscrossed on the dirt, rubbing her weary wrists, giving me a rather flinty look. I find a stick within arm’s length to draw a map in the loose dirt, beginning with an elongated circle.

  "Listen, this is my property.” I retrace the malformed shape in the dirt.

  "It's wrapped with an electric fence to keep out any wandering wildlife. Since you are small, you could probably fit through without getting shocked or any electric burns, not too badly anyway.”

  Her eyes bulge. I return to my makeshift map in the loose dirt, drawing four lines out from the shape like a compass rose.

  "After you get through the fence, you are going to come upon one of my neighbors, depending on which way you go. If you go to the north, you'll most likely run into Frank and his wife. He's an old mountain man, nice. However, I don't think he could help you, nor could his wife, but you could try. You are also going further away from any f
orm of communication."

  I point with the stick. "If you go to the east, you will meet Benjamin and his son. Benjamin was one of the last groups of young men imprisoned on the island of Alcatraz. He doesn't keep that piece of information to himself. He will tell you all about his former crimes with pride. Then, he will tell you all about the men being incarcerated in high security federal prisons for their idiotic crimes and what they could have done differently in order to get away with it. Once Benjamin was released from Alcatraz for a fabulous imitation of good behavior, he came here to meet up with a friend. Benjamin and his so-called son, Marcus, are always concocting a new heist and bragging about it. My grandpap met Benjamin the first week he was here and didn’t trust him from the moment he shook his hand, so I don’t either.”

  I move the stick clockwise in the dirt. "If you go south, you will find a group of men, women, and children who are right-winged self-appointed U.S. Militia. They are from Montana and believe the government has violated their rights as Americans. The group is training for some uprising. The government always intervenes so they aren’t a risk. You will find them dressed in camouflage and outfitted with plenty of firearms. The men will keep you in their group for some time before getting you back to where you belong."

  "If you go west, you will find yourself in Cree Nation. That will be your best option. They are the nicest people, but not many of them speak English. They are terrified of people who speak English because of relentless hounding for years by English-speaking people seeking access to the gas and oil resources on their land. They are trying to preserve their old ways by speaking Cree, their native tongue. If you speak French, they may be more receptive to you."

  I start making squiggly lines in the dirt.

  "Now, you can always stick to the roads leading directly out of my property. They have many twists and turns and they are washed away in rainstorms, but you'll still run into one of my neighbors, no matter what. The one thing they all hate is a trespasser, so please go armed for your own protection. I have plenty of firearms you can use.” I point back to my garage near the main cabin.