Chapter 19 Steffani
I wake up slowly.
At first, I think I’m still in the car, drifting down the highway, but whatever’s pressed against my cheek doesn’t feel like upholstery.
Splinters snag on my T-shirt as I roll onto my back; my nose itches with the dry, mealy smell of sawdust. I squint my eyes open, letting them adjust to the brightness.
Fuck.
Above me are the bare rafters of a shack; beside me, bare walls; beneath me, a bare plank floor.
I push myself onto my elbows, which is harder than expected because of the angry throbbing in my temples, and use the wall as a crutch to get my feet under me.
It’s only then that I realize my soles are bare.
Why would someone want my ten-dollar Kmart sneakers?
Not because they couldn’t afford a pair of their own, that’s for sure, but more likely, because they wanted to make it harder for me to run.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Don’t panic, Steff. You can’t know anything yet—not for sure.
I stagger to the door and, already expecting the worst, try to push it open.
It doesn’t budge. Taking a few steps back, I charge forward and, with a guttural cry, throw all my weight against it.
A chain rattles on the other side. He’s locked me in.
“Fucking bastard!” I scream as loud as I can, ramming my shoulder against the wood, again and again, until it feels like it’s been pummeled with a tenderizer.
The padlock holds.
I flatten my ear against the door and listen.
No traffic sounds. I shift so my eye socket is wedged against the crack.
Evergreens—lots of them. Wherever I’m being kept, it’s far out in the wilderness.
Where’s he taken me? California? Washington?
Maine? I have no idea how long I was passed out.
The only thing I know for sure is who’s trapped me here.
My dad.
He must’ve found someone—the gas station attendant, the long-haul trucker—who recognized my photo and pointed him in the right direction.
Stupid. I should’ve spent some of that refunded rent money on a box of dye when I first hit the road.
Bleached my hair in a bathroom sink, maybe even chopped it off with scissors borrowed from a cashier.
I should’ve told the man that we were being followed, as soon as we left the McDonald’s.
But if I had, he probably would’ve pulled over and ditched me on the side of the road.
No one needs that kind of trouble in their life.
If there’s one thing my revolving door of foster families taught me, it’s that if you want help—a free bed or a free ride—you need to make it easy for people to give it to you.
I wonder what happened to that man. If I’m here, imprisoned in a shack, there’s a good chance he’s somewhere even worse.
I rest my forehead against the door. The room keeps spinning, and my skull keeps vibrating like a snare drum working overtime during an arena rock song.
Did my dad drug me? How did he manage that?
The door’s not going to open, which means I’ll need to find another way out.
I start probing the walls for loose boards.
It’s not until my third go-round that I notice a nail half sticking out.
I drop to my knees, start wiggling it back and forth.
“Come on,” I mutter. “Come on.” Finally, it slides free.
I appraise the sharp end, which isn’t anywhere near as sharp as I’d like it to be. Still, it’ll do the job.
I examine the inside of my wrist. A rough, triangular patch of scar tissue marks where my dad once stamped it with a steam iron.
I could hack through with a little effort.
Hack through, right down to the vein, and that motherfucker would never be able to trap me again.
The nail tip settles against my skin. It should be easy, and yet, my skin might as well be made out of steel for all I can bring myself to puncture it.
I’m not a coward. I’m not afraid to die or anything; I just don’t want to go out like this.
Instead, I dig the nail into the nearest plank and start carving out my name. If anyone comes across this shack, and I’m, well, not here anymore, I want them to know that I once was. I’m just finishing STEFFANI when a new sound fills the shack.
Metal scratching on metal.
And then something clanking to the ground. The chain. He’s opened the padlock, and the chain’s slipped off the door.
He’s out there. As I struggle upright, the floor tilts under my feet. Whatever he drugged me with hasn’t worked its way out of my system yet, which means fighting back will be tough, but I still palm that nail. It’s not much, but you know what? Fuck it. Everybody has a throat.
The door slowly creaks open. I get ready to charge him. Slam that nail straight through his jugular.
But as soon as he steps into the cabin, I forget all about escaping. Instead, a single thought blasts through my mind like the raw chill from a walk-in freezer:
That isn’t my father.