The first thing I noticed was the sound. A low, steady hum, like the world itself had narrowed to the vibration beneath me. Tires rolling against asphalt. A soft, rhythmic thud as the van swallowed miles I couldn't see. Then came the smell: stale rubber, oil, faint cigarette smoke. The air was thick with it, clinging to the back of my throat.
My cheek throbbed when I turned my head. The sting bloomed into something hot and pulsing, and for a brief, disoriented moment, I couldn't tell if it was the pain or the fear making the edges of my vision flicker. My wrists burned where the plastic ties bit into the skin. Too tight to slip. Too smooth to break.
I shifted slightly, and the cold metal of the van floor pressed against my shoulder. It wasn't warm enough to hold any trace of life. My pulse was loud in my ears, a frantic, uneven drum that made it hard to breathe. I closed my eyes, forcing the panic back down my throat where it belonged. Not now. Not like this.
…
Breathe in.
…
