She was so cold. It was one of the few things her brain could register, as she slowly regained consciousness. The cold had seeped into her bones, and small muscle spasms riddled her body. They had left her so bare – her shoulders, her stomach, her back, her chest – all were exposed to the dewy fogginess of the September mountain dawn. And, as if the misery of being too helpless to shield vulnerable body parts from the elements was not bad enough, the uncontrollable convulsions in her stomach associated with the intense shivering exacerbated the pain she was already feeling in what had to be numerous fractured ribs.

And oh, the pain. It wasn't just in her ribs; it was all over. The pain was excruciating. It permeated her body, her person; it overwhelmed her. In some spots, like in her chest, her arm and her stomach, the pain came in the form of acute, pointed jabs, reminiscent of the original, sharp pain she had had to endure when that baseball bat kept coming down on her – over, and over again. And in other parts – her head, her eyes, and, lower, much lower down – in a place she didn't want to acknowledge at this time – the pain was a more even, continuous agony.

She sucked in a wet breath through her nose, and remembered the gag, still firmly in place. She only vaguely recalled being forced to take that in. The hand-towel-sized cloth ruthlessly shoved into her mouth, the sickening taste – like dishwater and sweat – and those rough hands placing the filthy bandana over it and tying it behind her head. When the cloth had first brushed against the back of her throat, she had panicked and gagged, nearly vomiting. And then those first desperate, ragged breaths through her nose, as she reacted to being forced to breathe with such limited capacity, just when the assault was becoming severe enough that she required large, additional gulps of air just to sustain herself.

She pushed the memory away and tried to think straight, to take stock of her situation: She was lying on her right side, her weight resting painfully on her fractured arm, which one of them had deliberately broken – it had served no strategic purpose in subduing her – and she was curled in a loose ball, her knees bent towards her chest. Her cheek scraped against the soil, a small twig further irritating her face. It was the same position she'd been in for hours. Her wrists were pulled painfully behind her back, tied unnecessarily tightly with that awful thin wire. She could not feel her hands; the circulation had long ago been cut off. She was mildly aware of being wet and sticky around most parts of her body. Her back felt the wettest, and it stung, as though a hive of bees were feasting on it. It was also wet between her legs, but her sweatpants, which clung loosely to her hips, were absorbing it. She couldn't remember how they'd gotten back on.

Back on.

She forced herself not to focus on it, and instead to feel thankful to have any scrap of clothing at all. For it was the shivering that was really killing her.

She had to fight a bout of nausea as she opened her eyes to blurriness. A bad sign, she knew – probably meant a concussion. Under no circumstances could she vomit into her gag. Her vision cleared momentarily, and she was briefly lucid enough to appreciate that it was, in fact, morning. But the foggy dampness and eerie quiet suggested it couldn't be much later than 5 a.m.

At least two hours before they might start looking for you.

This insight alone – this seemingly minor tidbit of information, was enough to tip the balance in her head – the decision to fight or to die. It was a fact: she simply could not last two more hours.

And yet, lying here bound and gagged and so badly beaten it hurt to shiver, she was overcome with despair: how had it come to be that she, a person normally so strong and independent, had been rendered so helpless as to lack control over her own ability to die?

You have to hold on for two more hours.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

He really had to pee. His brain had been warning him for some time to take care of this, or else. That his last dream had had something to do with emptying his bladder was his final tip-off that the situation was getting urgent. It was light out, but not much later than dawn. He sat up in bed, determined to make this quick – it was freezing! Quietly, for he didn't want to wake his dad, who looked like he was getting the best sleep he'd gotten in weeks – on a thin mat over hard, uneven ground – go figure – he pulled on his fleece and hiking boots and stood up.

It occurred to him that she must have had the same idea – for her half of the makeshift bed was empty. He really hoped he didn't run into her. He wasn't sure which was a potentially more embarrassing idea – her catching him, or him catching her. Luckily, he had the option of not having to go too deeply into the woods to do his business. And if he did it right over the edge of the little cliff, he could keep an eye out for her. Boy, he chuckled to himself – he saw what she'd meant yesterday when she'd made the comment – men really did have it easier in this department.

He zipped up, and raced back to the sleeping bag, the cold penetrating even the flannel of his double layer of long underwear. His father was still sound asleep.

He was glad for his dad. It had become a regular occurrence to wake up for school just as his dad was coming home from an all-nighter. He felt badly that his dad always seemed so tired. It was, in fact, what had ultimately driven his mom away, these late nights, the constant fatigue when he actually was home.

He curled up under the cover of the still-warm sleeping bag. So comfy… So warm… It was heavenly, this sleeping bag. He closed his eyes, reveling in the luxury of his covers, his mind drifting to yesterday, when the three of them had triumphantly reached this spot, and gazed at the view from the ridge. They had taken pictures. They had swum in the stream.

He sighed with contentment. How he was enjoying this trip. No sisters. Just him and his dad, and the woman who'd come to be more than his dad's partner. He knew his dad had been torn between wanting to be with her, and feeling like he was letting down his son in inviting a third person along on the trip that had been supposed to be a father-son thing. But his dad sensed that he wouldn't mind, and so asked his permission first, which he gave, careful not to sound too enthusiastic.

The truth was, he more than didn't mind. Although he would admit this to no one, he adored her. To his friends, she was his dad's super-hot partner. She was merely someone who, he agreed with as much conviction as he could muster in front of his macho, mid-pubescent friends, ought to be on the cover of a swimsuit calendar. And to his sisters, and especially to his twin sister, who worshipped her in a twelve-year-old-girl kind of way, she was just his dad's partner; someone about whom he was officially indifferent – she was neither nice nor mean, pretty nor ugly, and jeez, his sister ought to get a grip! But inside his head, in a place he shared with no one, he fantasized. And it was more than just her looks – granted, that was a huge part of it, but something about her – she was tough and sweet and confident and goofy and exciting and soft all at the same time. Just being in her presence thrilled him.

He began to drift off, a pleasant dream – something about her – beginning to overtake him. Suddenly, he jerked awake. A second passed, and he realized it hadn't been an external stimulus. He had this odd, funny feeling that something was wrong. He lay there, uncertain as to why his subconscious was so bothered. He mentally checked off a list of things that could be wrong: The campfire was burning but contained; there were no wild animals about; it was not starting to rain; there had been no strange sounds; his dad was still asleep.

And then it hit him.

She should've been back by now.

He sat up with a start. Hadn't he been back from his foray to the edge for at least ten minutes? He knew women took longer than men, but would she truly linger in a forest in the middle of the night?

You're being ridiculous. She's probably just taking a while. Who knows what women have to do when they go.

He lay back down, relieved that he had found a logical explanation. And yet, it didn't really make sense. It wasn't like she needed to fix her makeup – wasn't that why women usually took so long? He had no idea.

You should get up and look for her.

His father would kill him if he wandered off into the woods alone.

And yet… And yet…What if…

Should he wake his dad? He pondered this solution for a moment. Would his dad be upset? Would he angrily yell out what had to be the obvious explanation for her absence?

He looks so peaceful. He never sleeps this well.

No, he really couldn't do that to his dad. Besides, what could happen to him, as long as he stayed near the vicinity of the campsite? It was light out now, so he knew he wouldn't get lost. If he spotted her, he'd discreetly come back to his sleeping bag. And if his dad woke up, he'd say he'd gone to pee.

As he was getting up once again, determined to carry out this mission, the answer dawned on him. They had had a fight, and she'd left to go home. This had to be it. He lay back down, depressed. The adventure was over. The trip was over. His dad would be in a bad mood. And he wouldn't get to be with her. Walk with her. Talk to her.

He stared at the gray sky from his position on his back, and was again overcome by doubt. Did it really make sense? Did adults do this? Storm off in the middle of the night? He had certainly seen it in the movies. But this was a campsite – it was different – they were in the middle of the woods. He knew she was a cop, but he'd seen how protective his dad was – surely he wouldn't let her leave by herself no matter how mad he was. And in any case, hadn't they seemed happier than ever when they'd gone to sleep? Wouldn't he have heard them if they were fighting? When his mom and dad had fought, he could hear them from his bedroom upstairs. Was a fight really the only explanation?

He had a thought: Maybe she was under the covers after all and had been there the whole time. Maybe she was cuddled up with his dad and he just hadn't looked properly. He sat up again, and stared intently at his father's sleeping form, willing her to be there. He blinked several times. He wasn't hallucinating. She simply wasn't there.