Chapter 2

Wes didn't yell.

He crossed the distance in a few hard strides.

I moved to shield Jonah, but the tow chain jerked tight, the iron tearing at the skin above my right heel.

Wes’s hand seized the front of my sweater, twisting the collar until the fabric pressed into my windpipe. He slammed me back against the forklift tire, his boot pinning my thigh to the cold slab.

His free hand swept the dark puddle behind me and came up with the flip phone.

The screen was still lit.

Call Ended. 02:14.

Wes’s thumb hit the call log.

Three failed calls to 911. Fourteen dials to the station. The last one had held for two minutes and fourteen seconds.

"Channel 6," he said. He didn't raise his voice. That frightened me more. "You called the studio."

"They heard everything," I rasped, my hands clamped around his wrist to buy half an inch of air. "The police are coming."

Wes looked at the log again.

"Fourteen calls," he said. "And Graham Weller gave you two minutes."

His eyes moved to Jonah.

"Doesn't sound like a rescue."

He pressed redial.

He held the phone to his ear, waiting through five rings until the studio voicemail kicked in with a mechanical beep.

"Mr. Weller," Wes said into the receiver. "Your former fiancée and your son are chained inside the old plant. Your son can barely breathe. Fifty thousand in cash by tomorrow morning. Call this number within thirty minutes and tell me you’ll pay. If this phone stays silent, I leave the boy chained here when the water comes in."

He snapped the phone shut and shoved it deep into his Carhartt coat pocket.

The clock above the office door read 9:10.

Behind my legs, Jonah began to cough—a tight, hollow spasm that rattled against his ribs.

Wes turned his head.

His eyes traveled across the dark floor, locking onto the overturned wooden spool near the office door.

On the rim sat Jonah’s clear plastic spacer and the blue inhaler fitted inside its base.

Wes walked over, picked up the assembled unit, and walked back to the forklift.

"Stop," I whispered, the word tearing raw against my throat. "He can't breathe without it."

"My sister’s landlord gave her until Monday," Wes said, looking down at Jonah’s blue lips. "She needs the accessible apartment and the aide who keeps her out of a nursing home. Fifty thousand fixes that. To Graham Weller, it’s pocket change."

"He doesn't have that in cash tonight!"

"Then he gets it when the branch opens," Wes said.

He dropped the spacer onto the concrete, six inches from Jonah’s sneakers, and raised his boot.

"No!"

I lunged forward, ignoring the cuff chewing into my ankle, and drove the green glass shard into the stitched leather tongue of his work boot.

The glass sliced through the seam.

Wes grunted, his foot jerking back, and his backhand caught me across the jaw.

My lip split against my teeth. Blood filled my mouth.

Wes kicked the glass shard out of my reach with his toe, grabbed both my forearms, and dragged my wrists together. He pulled a thick zip-tie from his pocket, looped it around my wrists, and cinched it tight.

This one was tighter than the first. My knuckles ached, but my fingers could still bend.

Before I could move, Wes brought his heel down on the clear tube on the floor.

Crack.

The clear chamber cracked under his boot, shattering into flat, jagged pieces.

The blue inhaler shot free under the blow, slid beneath the forklift, and stopped beside the axle—just beyond my fingertips.

Wes looked at the cracked plastic beneath his heel, satisfied.

"Thirty minutes," he said, stepping back toward the central aisle. "Then the boy stays where he is."

He turned and walked into the supervisor's office.

The office door slammed shut.

A moment later, the exhaust fan shuddered to a stop, leaving the old plant painfully quiet.

I dragged my ankle against the axle, pulling the chain until the iron bit into my raw skin. My bound hands strained forward under the oily frame.

My fingertips brushed smooth plastic.

I stretched another half-inch, hooked two fingers over the cap, and dragged the blue inhaler out of the dark.

It was intact.

"Jonah," I whispered, spitting blood onto the slab. "Come here. Lean on me."

Jonah dragged himself forward, his forearms shaking as he propped his chest against my knees. His small shoulders were lifting and dropping in that dry, agonizing shudder.

With my bound hands, I managed to pull off the cap and shook the small canister.

"Slow breath, baby," I murmured, keeping my voice level.

I guided the mouthpiece between his lips and pressed as he tried to breathe in.

A sharp hiss released the dose.

Jonah drew the mist into his chest, then let it out against my sweater.

I shook it again and gave him one more puff.

The whistling in his chest softened. Not enough. But enough to keep him with me.

Relief hit so hard my eyes burned. I pressed my forehead to his hair for one breath, then lifted it.

Wes had turned my son’s lungs into leverage. If I got one clean chance, I was going to make him regret coming near us.

His forehead rested against my collarbone, his breathing ragged but anchored.

I slid the blue inhaler into my fleece pocket, right against my ribs.

Through the dusty window of the supervisor's office, I could see the wall clock.

The clock read 9:12.

Twenty-eight minutes.

The exhaust fan coughed back to life, shaking the loose metal vent cover behind Jonah.

One corner had pulled away from the wall. The dark opening behind it looked too narrow for me, but maybe wide enough for his shoulders.

The blades began to gather speed.

I pulled my boy closer.

"When it gets loud," I whispered into his hair, "you crawl."