I observe all this with clinical detachment and put together a theory: I’ve been drugged and have spent a long time unconscious.
Memory is next. Work—the MVC. Losing Gus—I remember the names of every patient I've ever lost; they're written in a pocket-sized Moleskine notebook I keep in my purse. What else do I remember? Finishing my shift. Going to my car. Blue eyes. Fighting. I sent a text to Selm. I can't relax, because I know I'll have to get myself out of this, but I also know that Anselm See will tear the Earth apart with his bare hands to bring me home safely. I just have to stay alive until then.
I do keep tabs on what's happening with everyone—the A1S world is its own small, insular community. We take care of our own. So I know that Bryn has been through hell, and I know Cal and Killy are AWOL and presumed kidnapped. Selm called me to tell me to keep watch and be prepared for anything, which is when I put that bear spray in my purse. Fat lot of good it did. My assumption is that I've been kidnapped by the same people who took Bryn, as retaliation of some sort. And, to be perfectly honest, I'm somewhat surprised it took this long for A1S enemies to come after me.
It's why I've kept up with my self-defense training, why I spend several hours a week at the range, keeping my weapons skills current.
I crack an eyelid, but there's nothing to see but darkness. There are other sensations to gain clues from, however. A subtle motion—side-to-side rocking, a dip, a lift. I'm on a boat. What else? I work my limbs: I’m not shackled or otherwise restrained. I'm clothed—in my scrubs, still. My Apple watch is still on the inside of my wrist, and I tap the screen to wake it up—the dim whitish glow illuminates a tiny patch of my surroundings; it’s of little use, though, as it’s a wifi-only model. Dull reddish metal behind me and underfoot. I tap a fingernail against the wall at my back, and it thunks hollowly. I'm in a container, then. The air is somewhat fresh, however, which means there must be a vent of some kind, somewhere.
"Who's there?" A male voice pierces the thick black silence. A familiar one, at that.
My heart pounds frantically, seared with hope and relief and worry and fear. "It's Story," I murmur, my throat on fire with thirst, my voice raspy.
I hear movement. "Where?"
I tap on the floor. "Here."
"Keep doing that. I'll find you."
I tap, tap, tap until the shuffling is near, and then I reach out. My hand finds rough denim. A hard thigh muscle. A firm abdomen covered by a thin T-shirt.
"Got you," he says, his hand finding mine. He chokes, then. "Story? Is that really you?"
"Killian?"
He laughs, a half-crazed bark of desperation. "Story. I hate that you're here, but I'm also glad it's you."
"You've been in here the whole time?" I ask.
"Yeah. They send in food and water once a day. There's a bucket in the corner over there for using the bathroom.” He moves my hand and points.
"Who is it? Who has us?"
"Fuck if I know." A pause. "Did they…they didn't hurt you? Or…or anything?"
"No, Killy. I mean, I fought, but no. A decent punch to the temple, but I’m fine. They didn't do…anything else. That I know of, at least. I'm dressed and nothing hurts."
"At least there's that." He squeezes my hand.
"They fucked up, though," I say.
"Oh? How?" he asks.
I grin into the blackness, squeezing his hand back. "They put us together. And they have no idea who they've kidnapped."
He laughs. "I've been biding my time. We're on a fucking giant ass boat in the middle of the ocean—we were in port somewhere in Europe when they put me in here, and we've been at sea ever since. They brought you aboard via helicopter—I heard it."
"How long ago was that?"
"Barely an hour."
"No indication as to what they want?"
“To fuck with our parents, I assume."
Silence.
"Story?"
