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She darted toward it, trying to yell for help but no sound escaped her throat. Her body revolted against her, giving out when she needed it most. The light grew brighter the harder she ran until all she saw was a flash of white. Blinded, she tripped and collapsed to the ground, pain running through her in waves as the light surrounding her burned out entirely.
* * *
The basement was dark and damp, the only exit a set of metal doors locked with heavy chains. With no windows, it was sweltering, the air polluted with the stench of sewer. Dried blood tinged the concrete floor like old splatters of red paint, a grotesque canvas of prolonged misery.
Haven lay in the corner, her frail body unmoving, except for the subtle rise and fall of her chest. Her long brown hair, usually somewhat frizzy, was so matted it appeared only half its length. By society’s standards, she was as sickly as they come. Jutting collarbones and limbs like twigs, her ribs could be counted through her bruised and bloodied skin. She thought herself to be healthy, though. She’d seen people worse than her before.
The day had begun like every other. Haven woke up at dawn and spent most of the morning cleaning. In the afternoon she spent some time with her mama, the two of them sitting against the side of the old wooden house. Neither spoke as the sound of the television filtered out of an open window above them. The news told of a hurricane brewing in the south and a war waging in Iraq, the significance of both lost on Haven.
Her mama said listening to it was a waste of time, because their slice of the world was barely a blip on the big radar, but Haven couldn’t help herself. The five o’clock news was the highlight of her day. She needed to feel like she was real, that something—or someone—she’d had contact with still existed out in the world, somewhere.
Screaming started inside the house, interrupting the news as fighting made its way into the living room. Haven climbed to her feet, not wanting to be caught eavesdropping, when she heard something that stopped her in her tracks. “I want the girl gone!”
“I know, Katrina! I’m working on it!”
“Not hard enough!” Katrina was the lady of the house, a harsh woman with short black hair and wickedly pointy features. “Get rid of her already!”
Get rid of her already. The words suffocated Haven. The fighting moved from the living room to upstairs, their voices fading as tense silence crept in.
She was in serious trouble.
“This world’s scary,” her mama whispered. “People will hurt you. They’ll do things to you, sick things . . . the kind of things I hope you never know about. And they’ll trick you. They’ll lie to you. You have to be on guard at all times, baby girl.”
Haven didn’t like where the conversation was going. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you need to know,” she said. “You have to run.”
Haven stared at her in disbelief. “Run?”
“Yes, tonight. There’s more to life than this, and I’m afraid of what will happen if you stay here.”
“But I can’t run, Mama. I don’t know what’s out there!”
“People out there can help you.”
Tears formed in Haven’s eyes. “I can’t leave you.”
“It’s the only way,” she said. “You have to get away from here, find someone and tell them who you are. They’ll—”
“Save you?” Haven asked, finishing her sentence. “Will they come here?”
“Maybe.” Something sparked in her eyes. Hope?
“Then I’ll do it,” Haven said, “for you.”
After nightfall, when Haven thought no one would look for her until morning, she quietly slipped away. She ran for the world outside of the ranch, determined to find help so she’d never have to return.
Waking up in the musty basement, she realized she’d failed.
A clanking jolted Haven awake, a blinding light assaulting her. Cringing, she noticed the doors open and someone standing a few feet away. A man with olive skin approached, his dark hair slicked back on his head. He wore black pants and a white button-up shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Haven gaped at the silver gun holstered to his belt.
Her voice cracked. “Are you the police?”
The man knelt near her, setting a small black bag on the floor. He didn’t answer but gave her a bemused smile as he pressed his large palm to her forehead.
Haven closed her drowsy eyes and got lost in the silence until the man finally spoke. She opened her eyes again, surprised by his gentle tone, but recoiled when she met a hostile glare.
Behind the stranger stood someone she knew well. Michael, or Master as he preferred to be called, scowled at her with his dark eyes, the whites of them dingy yellow. His lip was curled in a sneer, his wiry hair graying around the ears.
