Even knowing it was probably a lie, I took out my wallet.

Because what if this girl was the key? The key to finding my daughter.

To hell with circumstances; I create opportunities.

—BRUCE LEE

SAVANNAH TAYLOR

Slumped in one of the RV’s swivel chairs, Jenny told me about the night the man she called Sir had taken her. The whole time she was speaking, her fingertips absently traced the red ridges of her face.

“So we’re in a wrecking yard?”

“Yeah, there are lots of junked cars.” With the back of her hand, she wiped her glistening chin, wet with leaking spit.

I averted my eyes. “My mom’s boyfriend is named Tim Hixon. He’s a mechanic. And he drives this stupid old 1968 Camaro that’s always breaking down. A couple of times he even made us go with him to some nasty old junkyard to see if they had the parts he needed.”

Jenny straightened up. “Do you think he’s the one who took me? Who took us?”

“It kind of makes sense, at least as much sense as anything does. He hates if you question him. He calls it disrespectful and talking back. And he goes out at night a lot when my mom’s at work. She works swing shift. He never says where he’s going. Maybe he’s been coming here to see you.” This motor home, the tiny stained couch I was sitting on, the scarred girl sitting across from me, my broken wrist splinted with a magazine—it was hard to believe any of it was real. I was trying not to look at her face, but it was impossible not to. “Who stitched you up?” I asked.

“Sir did. Whoever he is. He watched prepper videos on YouTube on his phone. Of course, they’re about how to do surgery if society collapses. Not how to stitch up some girl you’re holding hostage.” She grimaced. “Before he started, he had me drink a bunch of whiskey, almost to the point of passing out.”

Whiskey. Tim mostly drank beer, but he kept a bottle of whiskey on top of our fridge.

As I replayed the rest of what she had said, my stomach did a slow flip. How much would it hurt to have someone sew your face? “Almost?”

Her torn lips twisted. “Yeah, it probably would have been better if I had. He kept yelling at me to stop moving. He drank a lot, too. You could tell the whole thing was really grossing him out.”

“Oh my God.” I didn’t want to imagine it, but my brain kept showing me pictures anyway. “So this guy, has he…” My voice trailed off. “Has he left you alone?” I tried to take a deep breath, but it didn’t go anyplace.

“He uses the Taser on me if I don’t do what he wants. Like he got mad because I kept looking him in the eye. So he shocked me.” She twisted back and forth in the swivel chair. “And when I didn’t want to call him Sir, he fixed that in a hurry.”

I hated to keep asking. I knew how cruel it was. But I had to know. “That’s not really what I meant,” I said carefully.

Jenny stilled, and I saw that she finally understood. “Oh. No. Even though all the clothes he had in the closet for me were sexy ones. He hates the way my face looks. He was hoping I’d look better once the scars healed. Everything he read online said it might take as long as a year. But it’s been ten months, and it’s pretty clear I’m never going to look normal again.” She regarded me with something I thought might be pity. “I figure that’s why he took you. You must be the new me. Only with fewer defects.”

Jenny and I did look alike, I realized. Blue eyes, pale skin, long dark hair.

An icy finger traced my spine as I stared at this ruined girl. “Forget that! I’m not waiting around to see what he wants me for. I’m getting out of here.”

She shook her head. “You can’t.”

“Just because the front door is chained doesn’t mean there’s not a way out. It’s not like this is a supermax prison. It’s a motor home.” Using my good hand, I awkwardly got to my feet, ignoring how it made my head hurt even worse. I pushed aside the brown polyester curtain that led to the driving end of the RV. The windshield and side windows were also covered with silver tarps. The faint light from behind me revealed a deep dash made of fake wood. The driver and passenger seats were shaped like recliners. Any flat surface was piled with stuff.

My pulse was a drum in my ears as I realized to my horror that neither the driver’s nor the passenger’s side had a door. The only way in or out was the door in the living area, the one that was chained shut. The one with Rex on the other side.

The windows operated on sliders. I pinched the bar on the driver’s-side window, but it refused to move. Pressing my cheek against the cold glass, I saw that a piece of wood had been wedged into the outside track. On the passenger side, the window was the same.

It felt like my throat was closing. Like my heart was about to give out. I could hear my own breaths, shallow and fast.

I recognized this panicky feeling. The first time it happened, I was eight and we were living with this guy named Adam and his kid, Cameron, in Hebron, Nebraska. I’d been retrieving a Monopoly game from the top shelf of the living room closet when suddenly Cameron, who was a year older, closed the door. I heard him giggle as he stuck a dining room chair under the handle, the way people did in movies.

No matter how hard I turned the knob or slammed my shoulder against the door, it refused to budge. With the wood of the door on one side of me and the winter coats pressing against the other, I started feeling like I might smother. Or that my heart would explode. In less than five minutes, I went from shouting, kicking, and pounding to crying and hyperventilating. When Cameron let me out, he took one look at my face and burst into tears himself.

“Are you all right?” Jenny asked.

I didn’t answer, just moved back into the living space. I pounded one fist experimentally on the window. The blows sounded muffled. On the other side of the door, Rex growled. He seemed close, like his feet were on the top step.

Jenny winced. “There’s nothing to break them with. It’s not like he left a hammer or a crowbar in here.”

Suddenly, I knew what Bruce Lee would do. “Maybe we could try this!” I said, moving until I found the right angle. Taking a deep breath, I leaned my upper body to one side while I brought my left knee to my chest, so that I was standing on my right leg like a stork. As I said this, my left foot shot out and hit the window with as much force as I had ever kicked a heavy bag. But it didn’t break. It didn’t crack. It didn’t even bend. I stumbled backward. Jenny reached out her hand and steadied me before I fell over.

The kick, which had taken every last bit of my energy, had accomplished so little that Rex didn’t even start barking. He just growled louder.

“I think all the windows are made of plastic, not glass,” Jenny said.

After Cameron had locked me in the closet, I couldn’t stand elevators, small rooms, or crowded movie theaters. Even getting stuck in traffic was torture. Those other times were just a product of my imagination. But this RV was just as real as the closet had been. Only no one was coming to let me out.

Once my mom learned about my fight with Tim, she’d probably think I’d run away. Even if she didn’t, no one would know to look for me here. Sir had snatched me from a deserted parking lot. Nobody would be able to connect the dots from me to this place.