Taken Read Free Page B

still felt like it was stuffed with cotton. But I couldn’t let any of that distract me. I had to focus on one thing and one thing only—escape.
    I looked around the shack. Judging from the layer of dust on the small cast-iron stove that stood against one wall, no one had been here recently. Cobwebs filled the corners below the ceiling and hung like lace from the two rickety shelves on the wall. Mouse droppings speckled the torn, stained mattress that lay crooked on top of a wooden sleeping platform behind me. There were more mouse droppings on the floor below.
    My eyes went back to the shelves. One held a metal bowl, a cracked and grimy glass, and a couple of plates. I wondered if there was some cutlery somewhere. I wondered if there was a knife.
    I didn’t see one.
    I studied every inch of the inside of the shack. It had been roughly built out of six-inch planks nailed to two-by-four uprights. It didn’t appear to be insulated, which told me that whoever it belonged to used it primarily in the summer, although the stove might keep it warm enough in the spring and fall. Maybe it was a hunting cabin. I shuddered at the thought. Hunters have guns. Hunters like to kill.
    Don’t think about that , I told myself sternly. Think about how to get out of here. Stay calm. Concentrate.
    I ran my tongue over the rough interior of my mouth. What I wouldn’t do for a sip of water. I imagined myself cupping my hands and raising icy stream or lake water to my lips. I imagined it tasting like liquid honey.
    Steph, focus! You want water? First find a way out of here—and fast.
    I scanned the interior of the shack again. This time, instead of just looking, I focused on seeing. There’s a big difference. You can look without really seeing. That’s what my grandpa told me the first time he took me on a hike in the woods and I complained about how boring it was, nothing but stupid old trees everywhere. He showed me how to see that all those trees were like the beams of a gigantic building and that there was a whole extended family of creatures— animals, plants, insects, reptiles—making a life in that building. He showed me a lot of other things too. My heart slowed a little. I was able to breathe again. Thinking about Grandpa always made me feel better. I made myself see the shack the way Grandpa would see a meadow or a streambed.
    I started at one corner and surveyed the place systematically with my eyes. I was three-quarters of the way around and losing hope when I spotted them: the pointed ends of three—no, four—rusty nails protruding from a couple of two-by-four uprights to which were nailed some newer-looking planks. It looked like someone had repaired a hole or some damaged wood but had done a sloppy job. And that was good for me. If I could position myself in front of one of the rusty nails, maybe I could work the rope against the pointed end until it broke. Maybe.
    It took a few agonizing minutes to half drag and half push myself to the closest nail. My legs and hands were numb. I hoped it was because of the cold and not because the ropes were so tight that they were cutting off my circulation. It took several more precious minutes to position myself so that I could start digging the end of the nail into the rope that bound my hands and ankles together. It was a lot harder than I had expected. I kept losing the end of the nail, and because I couldn’t see behind me, I couldn’t always tell if the nail was hitting the rope at the right place. The whole time I was working on that, I worried that whoever had taken me would walk through the door.
    My arms started to ache from being forced into an unnatural position. What if this didn’t work? What if I couldn’t free myself?
    I worked more frantically—and let out a yowl. Something sharp bit into my wrist. The nail. I felt something warm and wet. Maybe it was sweat. But what if it was blood? What if the rusty nail had