Page 10 of Forbidden to Fall

Was this how I would die? Trapped in the cupboard of a sugar shack kitchen?

No. Of course not. After a while, May would realize I hadn’t brought the key back, and she’d come looking for me.

How long would it be, though? My thighs were already starting to whine from not being able to stand straight.

I slid my back down the cupboard wall, cringing as my knees pressed against the door.

The space wasn’t wide enough for me to squat all the way. Nor was it wide enough for me to straighten my legs without hunching my upper body.

I would be in this bent, awkward position until May came, and probably eternally stuck in the position afterward, like a statuesque warning to the world of the dangers of trying to recreate childhood memories. My story would go viral on social media, with comments like “Darwin Awards gold medal winner” and “Self-selected out of the gene pool.”

Would a viral story like that be good or bad for Carver Farm?

I really didn’t want to find out.

I banged my fists on the door. “Help!”

Over and over, I pounded, willing the air to carry the sound to May in her cozy, insulated house.

I stopped and shut my eyes, letting my head fall back against the wood of the cupboard.

It was useless.

I’d die here and be remembered with the same scoffing as kids who ate Tide Pods on a dare, except I had a fully formed brain. Ostensibly.

A sound made me go still. I cocked my ear, afraid I was hearing things.

But I wasn’t.

There were footsteps. May had come for me.

Heart leaping into my throat, I banged on the door again. “Help!”

Her footsteps quickened.

The latch clicked, then the door swung wide, letting in a stream of light that had me shielding my eyes and blinking.

I lowered my hand as my eyes adjusted enough to see my rescuer.

It wasn’t May.

It was James.

James’s brows, already knit, tightened even more. “Sadie?”

“James.”

His was a question; mine was a breathless statement. Not because I had no questions but because I needed the firmness of a statement to believe what I was seeing. Who I was seeing.

James Carver. In Autumn Ridge.

A cramp shot up my thigh, and I winced, sucking a breath through my teeth.

I’d been pounding on the door for rescue, but the moment I’d seen my rescuer, I’d forgotten that I was bent like a demented twig.

I stumbled out of the cupboard, and he grabbed my elbow.

I tried to straighten, but unbending my knees was a skill from the bygone era before I’d stepped into that cupboard. Now all they were good for was screaming to be straightened while refusing to do exactly that.