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effort.
    Mr. X opened the wooden door. I strained to see behind him, but could only make out the same dark hallways and the same cheap table and chair set in the kitchen. He threw a bundle of clothes at me. “These are for you. If you want to shower, come now.”
    He stood, door in his hand, waiting for me to get up. I pulled myself up, slowly rolling one vertebra at a time until I was standing. My body screamed at every simple move, but Mr. X didn’t need to know that.
    I bent down to pick up the clean clothes. Blood rushed to my head and I swayed on my feet.
    Mr. X yanked me roughly back to a standing position. “I don’t have time for this.”
    I screamed as the pain ripped my nerves to their limit.
    Something passed over his face. Compassion? Probably not, but he let my arm go so I could finish stumbling into the bathroom on my own free will.
    I bit my lip to stifle my cries, then limped into the bathroom. My tears almost started again when I saw the stack of clean towels, the unopened tooth brush, and a first aid kit.
    Light pushed against the tiny, high window. It was definitely day time again.
    He shut the door without another word. He was apparently not concerned about me trying to escape. Hell, I could barely walk.
    I wasn’t even going to try. I was going to heal, and watch, and listen, and if I lived long enough…
    Mr. X pounded on the door. “Fifteen minutes starts now.”
    I said nothing, but made quick work of peeling off my clothes before I faced the mirror again.
    Holy shit. Dried blood coated my face, neck and chest a sickly brown. The gash across my face was swollen, red and angry. Bruises mottled my skin, leaving a trail of horrors down my ribs and back.
    But beneath that were strong chords of muscles, ready to use.
    I would escape.
    I stepped into the shower with a bar of soap, washing all the dirt, blood, and mud off of my skin. It hurt badly, but I scrubbed the cut on my face. I let the water run through my long hair, which turned the streams of water brown and red with my blood.
    The hot water was a miracle. My muscles moved freely and I was already in less pain.
    Once I was done, I wrapped myself in the clean towel. I stepped in front of the mirror again, satisfied to see the cut already looked a little less infected. I carefully cleaned it with antiseptic, then coated it with the antibacterial gel I found in the first aid kit.
    “Seven minutes!” Mr. X yelled through the door.
    I quickly pulled on the clean clothes —thin, cheap sweats, probably from a discount store. They were way too short, but clean.
    I left the sink running. I had maybe five minutes left.
    I approached the tub again, eyeing the high, small window. I stepped on the edge of the tub, fingers touching the wall for balance. My leg muscles screamed in protest, so I used my gift to float up to the window.
    Nothing. Desert stretched out as far as I could see. Scrubby plants dotted the muted brown sand. Some small, squat shapes loomed in the distance, promising a small building or house.
    Where the hell was I? Probably still in Nevada, or maybe Arizona. They couldn’t have driven me too far.
    THUMP . THUMP. “Three minutes!” Mr. X shouted.
    I let my feet touch the rim of the bathtub. I almost lost my balance, but managed to get back down on my own strength.
    I threw open the cupboards, finding nothing but a few rolls of toilet paper. The first aid kit was more promising—among the bandages and ointments, I found a small pair of scissors and a razor in a plastic sheath.
    I slipped those into my bra, underneath my breast. The ends of the scissors pushed in my skin, but it was a small price to pay. Energy moved through me with every beat of my heart. Between the hidden knife and these, I was armed again.
    I opened the door slowly, exaggerating the real weakness and soreness I felt.
    “ About time,” Mr. X grumbled. He pulled me roughly back into my room. While I’d been gone, the air mattress had disappeared. It was replaced