5
ANDY
When Andy opened his eyes, he was staring at a glass bowl.
At first, Andy thought the bowl was resting at a precarious angle, then he realized no, that was his head. He was sitting upright in a chair, but his head had dropped to his right shoulder. When he raised his head, the muscles and tendons ached. They were tight, unused, stiff.
There was a white rabbit inside the glass bowl.
The rabbit watched him with black, beady eyes. Its nose was in a constant state of twitch.
The rabbit didn’t want to be in the bowl—its worried movements showed that—but it had no way out. The bowl appeared to be meant for fish, but it was upside down, with the opening pressed to the tabletop, and the rabbit didn’t possess the strength to set it right.
The room in which Andy sat held little light, just enough to give outlines to the objects around him. More of a crude children’s drawing of a room than a living, breathing space. Grays and blacks smothered whatever color existed beneath.
Andy’s arms were tied to the armrests of the chair with thick, white rope, his legs affixed to the chair legs.
Another rope encircled his chest, fastening him to the high back.
Aside from raising his head or twisting it from side to side, he could not move.
Something was taped to his right index finger.
A small plastic box. A cord trailed from the device down the length of the chair and vanished.
There was something wrapped around his upper right arm, too.
Every few minutes it tightened, then released with a soft rush of air.
“Hello?”
The word came out rough, full of sand and gravel.
Andy’s throat had never been so dry.
There was a glass of water next to the bowl containing the rabbit, but Andy couldn’t reach it any more than he could see what was behind him, and he knew something was—he could hear it breathing.