Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Clove
The third day was the hardest.
The shock had worn off by then. The adrenaline that had carried me through the first night and most of the second had burned itself out. The kind of fear that didn’t scream or claw at you but settled into your bones and refused to leave.
I sat on the bed inside the camper, my back against the wall, my wrists in my lap with the rope next to me.
I had managed to get it off yesterday but knew I needed to keep it with me until I figured out how to get out of here.
I had kept my ankles tied because faking that they were still tied would have been harder.
They had only come in once yesterday, and it had been brief.
The door had rattled, opened slightly, and a paper bag with water and a sandwich was tossed in.
The door had slammed before I could even register it had opened.
I listened today.
That had become my job.
Not moving unless I had to. Not wasting energy. Just listening.
Birds chirped outside again. They always did. Bright, happy little sounds that made the world feel wrong. I’d started to hate them, not because they were annoying, but because they reminded me how normal everything else still was.
Somewhere out there, people were making coffee. Letting their dogs out. Complaining about traffic.
And I was here.
I flexed my fingers and then froze.
Footsteps close by.
My heart jumped, then steadied. I’d learned not to waste panic. Panic burned energy, and energy was something I couldn’t afford to lose.
The footsteps stopped outside the camper. I frantically grabbed the rope and wrapped it around my wrists.
The door swung open so hard it slammed into the wall, rattling the thin frame.
One of the men stood in the doorway, a dark silhouette against the daylight. He still wore the mask, but it was pulled down enough that I could see most of his face. He didn’t step inside. He tossed a paper bag on the bed near my knee. “Eat,” he said.
I scrambled forward, my movement awkward and desperate with my ankles tied. “Please,” I blurted, the word tumbling out before I could stop it. “Please, just let me go. I won’t say anything. I swear. I’ll forget all of this ever happened.” My voice cracked.
He laughed. Not loud or amused. Just dismissive. “No,” he said flatly. “You’re not going anywhere.”
He stepped forward just enough that his boot crossed the threshold. I shrank back instinctively, pressing myself into the wall.
“Just shut up,” he added, his voice sharp now. “And wait.”
Then he slammed the door shut.
The sound echoed inside the camper, loud and final, and the vibration rattled my teeth.
I sat there for a moment, frozen, staring at the closed door like it might open again.
It didn’t.
Whatever was blocking it moved back into place, and then nothing.
Silence rushed back in, broken only by my breathing and the distant birds.
I swallowed hard and looked down at the paper bag.
Carefully, I picked the bag up and peeked inside.
A sandwich.
Wrapped in wax paper. Still warm. Grilled cheese. I could smell it immediately. Mild, melted, comforting in a way that almost made my eyes sting.
Of course.
Of all the things to break me, it would be a cheese sandwich.
I peeled back the paper slowly, my fingers clumsy but determined. The bread was slightly toasted, the cheese melted just enough to stick to it in soft, stretchy strands.
I stared at it.
My mom would’ve been offended.
Carnie didn’t believe in half-measures when it came to food. She cooked like she loved—loudly, generously, and without apology. Growing up, our kitchen had always smelled like spices and butter and something simmering. Meals weren’t just fuel; they were events. Proof that you were cared for.
Even now, I could picture her standing at the stove, hair pulled back, apron dusted with flour, swatting at Dad when he tried to sneak a bite before dinner was ready.
The memory hit me harder than the hunger did.
I took a bite.
The cheese was greasy. The bread a little soggy in places. It tasted like something you grabbed because you didn’t have time or better options.
And I ate it anyway.
Because I was hungry.
Because I needed the energy.
Because refusing food was a stupid hill to die on.
I chewed slowly, forcing myself to pace it even though my body wanted to inhale the whole thing. My stomach cramped as it adjusted, and I closed my eyes for a second, breathing through the discomfort.
As I ate, a thought settled into my mind. If they were going to kill me, it would’ve already happened. They wouldn’t be feeding me.
They weren’t monsters who hurt people for no reason. They were idiots who thought they were in control.
That didn’t make them safe, but it meant something.
I finished the sandwich and folded the wax paper neatly, like that mattered. Then I sat there, hands resting in my lap, and let myself think.
Three days.
That was how long it had been since I’d been taken.
Three days since anyone had seen me.
Three days since I’d laughed in a stupid raccoon costume and thought the world was predictable enough to enjoy myself.
What I did know was this:
They hadn’t hurt me beyond the initial knock to the head. They hadn’t threatened me directly yet. They hadn’t asked for anything.
Which meant they were waiting.
I shifted my weight, easing myself back against the wall, and stared at the boards over the window. Light seeped in through thin cracks, striping the wall in pale gold. Dust motes floated lazily through the air, catching in the light.
Outside, everything was calm.
I thought about what the man had said.
Just shut up and wait.
They expected me to wait. They expected me to be quiet and compliant and scared enough to stay still.
That meant I still had time.
And as long as I had time, I had options.
I leaned my head back against the wall and closed my eyes. Not to sleep, but to rest them. I counted my breaths, slow and steady, keeping myself grounded.
Stay awake. Stay sharp. Stay alive.
Somewhere out there, under the same sky, the people who loved me were looking for me.
And until they found me… I would wait.