Ambulances carry saltines, right?
It’s a desperate thought, but some would call me a desperate girl.
The call immediately fails. The screen’s harsh glowshows I still have zero bars. No service.
“Aren’t phones supposed to have some sort of SOS signal even when you have no bars?” I hiss. Searching for a signal, I hold up my phone with one hand and wrap my coat tightly around my middle with the other. I need to get out from between these buildings. All this stone must be blocking—
Baa!
There’s a sharpclick clackagainst the pavement. I fumble with my flashlight, turn it on, and swing it around the dark alley. The fog swallows my flashlight’s beam, reducing my world to a few feet of illuminated mist.
Baa!
A sheep emerges from the fog, its dirty matted fur brushing my leg as itclick clackspast me and into the shadows.
“Where the fuck am I?”
Dull amber light glimmers up ahead, and I hear a muted cloud of laughter. I clutch my phone and hurry toward it. Once again, I’m off chasing a noise, this time hoping for someone more helpful than every doorman in Chicago. I should have gone out for drinks with the others. Instead, I’m in some rural-adjacent suburb, running from my abductor as my coworkers sip bespoke cocktails on the heated rooftop of Giovanni’s.
Swallowing my pride and pretending to enjoy myself would have also kept me from finding out the truth about Chad and our completely one-sided relationship. The memory stings, and Chad’s voice echoes in my mind, mocking and dismissive.
You’re so desperate.
I shake my head and ignore the instant headache that follows as I force Chad from my thoughts. I have other things to worry about, like staying alive and finding help.
“Or maybe I hit my head really,reallyhard,” I say aloud, my breath misting in the cold air. “Maybe this is a dream. Maybe I’m in a coma.” I squeeze my eyes shut and pinch myself through my puffy coat. When I open my eyes, there’s a chicken peering back at me from the middle of the road.
Not a dream, then. So where the hell am I?
Just ahead, past the chicken, lanterns hang outside a small house, its steeply pitched roof covered in ivy. Oil lamps bathe the street in liquid sunlight and illuminate the weathered sign hanging on the door—WILL’STAVERN.
I walk from between the towering stone buildings and onto a street—a real street. Well, kind of. Cobblestones run beneath my boots like tree roots, and homes emerge from the earth in a patchwork of timber and plaster. The glow of candlelight flickers through their gabled windows, looking down on the hay-littered street, where I stand completely transfixed.
This looks like a medieval village. Is this some kind of film set? Because this is not Chicago; this is not a suburb; this is not even soybean, cornfield middle-of-nowhere Illinois.
I adjust my hood against the rain and cross the street toward the sound of raucous laughter. “Just find people, and they’ll help you. Everything will make sense soon,” I tell myself with more confidence than I feel. “You’ll go home and never come back to this strangely accurate recreation of the past.”
I push open the ancient wood door and step into thetavern, the air warm and thick with the scents of beer and musk. It’s a sticky kind of cozy, with low wooden beams and a crackling fire. Tables of ruddy-faced men in dirty linen tunics are crammed together, filling most of the space as women walk around handing out pitchers and glasses, their boobs spilling out over the tops of their corset dresses.
What kind of Ren Faire nightmare is this?
There’s a burst of laughter from the back of the tavern, but it isn’t jovial. It’s harsh and barbed. The kind of outburst that occurs before a fight.
I scan the room, searching for a friendly face, someone who can explain where I am and what’s happening. But everyone looks strange—different from me in a way that’s hard to put my finger on.
“They’ll help you,” I remind myself. “You’ve just escaped a kidnapping. That’s why everything feels so wrong.”
From behind the bar, a plump, pink-cheeked woman looks up from polishing a glass and catches my eye. She motions to me, her nipples dangerously close to slipping out of their bindings with the movement. “Who’re you?”
I let out my first real exhale since meeting Chad’s new bed buddy and sag with relief against the bar. These might not be my kind of people, but they’re people. And there are a lot of them. Safety in numbers, right? Plus, I have to be one step closer to finding my way out of this—whatever it is—and back to reality.
I pull out my phone and am not completely shocked when I still don’t have a signal. “Do you have Wi-Fi?” I ask, avoiding the narrowed gaze from the man next to me.
The bartender puts her hands on her hips and jutsout her round chin. “I asked who you were, girl.”
I blink. “Sorry. I’m Hannah. Hello.”
My throat goes dry, and for a moment, I struggle to breathe. Embarrassment washes over me, fiery hot in my cheeks as I’m suddenly reminded of my failed presentation. The whole reason I’m here to begin with.
