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we got to deal with it. Now, I don’t believe in no heaven or no hell or any of that afterlife crap, so I intend to get what pleasure I can out of the rest of my life. Do you understand?”
    Did I understand? Hell, no, he was a pedophile. And things were looking all too much like the rest of his life took precedence over the rest of my life, but I couldn’t say that, because talking about it might make it too true too soon. I was having a lot of trouble coming up with an answer.
    â€œDidn’t you hear a word I said? Are you stupid?” Jeez, one silent moment and he’d flipped from chatty nice guy to threatening psycho.
    â€œAs you said, you’re a thinker,” I replied as calmly as I could. “You’re way ahead of me. I need time to consider your point of view.”
    â€œHuh.” He seemed somewhat mollified. “Well, you’re gonna have all day.” He picked up his pistol. “Back to bed with you, Miss Lee Anna.”

FOUR
    M y request for a blanket had been denied. “What for? It ain’t cold.” Maybe Stoat was afraid I knew some kind of Houdini escape I could perform under cover of a blanket. Maybe he enjoyed making me lie there for hours on end, physically and emotionally uncomfortable with my legs immodestly spread. Maybe he just didn’t want to be bothered.
    Hell, he didn’t matter. Justin mattered.
    Staring at the ceiling again and feeling the age lines in my face deepen, I tried to think how best to approach Justin. Wanting to rescue him was just fine, but I couldn’t do it until I’d rescued myself, which probably meant talking him into helping me. But in my experience, most teenage boys would rather sit on a fire ant hill than talk with a motherly woman.
    I could hear Justin doing chores. First the breakfast dishes, judging by the sound of running water and the clatter of plates, and then—whump of pillows being plumped—making the bed he shared with “Uncle Steve,” a thought that made me feel sick.
Don’t go there,
I told myself; the anthill syndrome went double in regard to talking about personal things. If I ever got to talk to Justin at all. What would be the best way to lure him into my room and get him talking? I could start fussing through my gag—
    Justin walked in, sat down on the side of my bed, pulled the gag out of my mouth, and slipped it down beneath my chin. “How are you doing?” he asked. “Can I get you anything?”
    So much for fire ant hills and most teenage boys. My mouth and throat felt strangely dry. “Um, I’m okay,” I managed to croak.
    Justin nodded. “I know it’s not real comfortable. Uncle Steve kept me tied to this same bed for the first month.”
    The first
month
!
    â€œHe would come home in the middle of the day to check on me,” Justin added. “He told his boss he was taking care of a sick dog. He’s not a bad guy, really.”
    What?
If Stoat wasn’t a bad guy, then would somebody please define—
    But I didn’t say that. I felt eggshells under my verbal feet. One false step, one wrong word, and I’d lose Justin. Even clearing my dry throat would be a bad idea at this point.
    In the lightest tone I could possibly manage, I asked, “How do you figure that?”
    â€œWell, he lets me watch NASCAR. He brings me stuff I like to eat, like Oreos—he doesn’t care about them, but he gets them for me. And the brand of cereal I like, and—and clothes and stuff. Last year he even got me a Christmas present. A PlayStation.”
    I wanted to scream or laugh or cry—he sounded so ludicrous, thankful for Oreos and a PlayStation while Stoat the insult to goats kept him as a sex slave. Needing time to contain my outrage and prompted by my raspy throat, I asked, “Could I have a glass of water?”
    â€œSure.” Justin headed toward the kitchen. As soon as he had left the room, I aimed a