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In and out, Mari.
In and out.
I can practically hear his voice.
In through the nose, out through the mouth.
Again.
You’re okay.
You’re going to be okay.
I follow his instructions, breathing in and out slowly, rhythmically. I place a hand on my chest to feel it rising up and dropping down, my erratic heartbeat just under my fingertips.
I can do this. I will do this. I’m going to be okay.
I squeeze my eyes shut, clutching my hands to my chest. No matter what happens, no matter what comes next, I fought. I tried. Kassara will know. She’ll know I fought until the very last moment because I sent that text.
If I die today, it won’t be for lack of trying, and that will be my legacy.
Not everything else.
I open my eyes as my heart rate slows down. I search the darkness for anything helpful, moving my hands across the fabric of the trunk around me. It’s pitch-black in here. I try to think, remembering anything and everything I’ve learned from films, books, and my own research.
Suddenly, an idea hits me.
There was a movie about it once…
If I can knock out the taillights and stick my hand out, it might be enough to draw someone’s attention without him noticing I’ve done it. I have no idea if we’re still on gravel roads or if we’ve made it to a highway, nor whether other people are on this road even if we are on a highway, but it’s worth a shot. I put my hands up in the air, feeling the rough fabric above my head. In the center, I feel a wire sticking out, but there’s not enough for me to grab onto, try as I might.
If this is what was meant to be a tab to pull to open the trunk, he’s done something to disable it. He wasn’t lying when he said this took a ton of preparation. He really has thought of almost everything. If not for his slipup with the fork this morning, I’d still be in that room.
We hit a bump just as I’m rolling onto my side, causing me to put too much pressure on my stomach wound, and pain ricochets through me. I cry out, momentarily paralyzed by the agony.
Come on. Keep moving. Keep trying.
I put my hands in the general area where one of the taillights should be and press it, feeling for a weak spot of plastic, but I feel only metal. I slide my hand up farther, to places I know it can’t be, and back again, sure I’m missing it. Still, there’s nothing. No plastic, no light.
When my fingers land on what feels like an edge of carpet, I give it a tug. It comes back with ease, and—there!I see the glow of red light around the edges of a panel.
Using my fingers to pry up the plastic edges, I peel it back. My chest swells with pride when I see the light finally. I reach forward, ready to try and knock it out, but my hand is stopped by a metal plate.
I can’t reach it. I can’t reach the taillight. My hand won’t fit in the small opening.
No.
No.
This can’t be it. I worked so hard, yet still I’m failing. I can’t reach the light, can’t knock it out.
They make it seem so easy in the movies.
I refuse to give up. Rolling over to reach for my purse, I dig inside, searching for anything that might give me leverage. A fingernail file that can reach farther than I can, perhaps.
Something.
There’s always something.
