Lark
The van slows.
Not stopping.
Adjusting.
We turn.
The sound changes immediately.
Echo.
Enclosed.
Concrete.
We’re inside something.
Warehouse.
Yard.
Large.
Open.
I keep my breathing even.
Calm.
They open the back doors.
Cold air rushes in—sharp, metallic.
Voices in the distance.
More than two.
Good.
More variables.
Hands grab me.
Firm.
Controlled.
Not careless.
Not kind.
They lift me out.
My legs don’t fully cooperate when they set me down.
I let them buckle.
