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saved his life was the fact that he was
only eighteen and his brain was still pliable enough to adapt
and compensate for the injured areas.
    She was thirty-one and doubted her brain was very pliable.
That sent a wave of panic over her. She could easily slip into a coma here and nobody would know. Who knows how long she
would last. How long can a person survive without water? Just a
few days, she thought. At least she would die in her sleep. Better
than being fully aware of the fact that her body was gradually
wasting away and life was slowly oozing out of her.

    But since the coma, the most attractive option, was no guarantee, she had to try to escape. It really was the only way. She
walked over to the wall, stretching her aching back and legs,
and leaned against it, scanning the countryside for any sign of
the dogs. She then went to the other three walls and peered
through them. No dogs. They had to have gone off in search of
food. Now was her time. Now or never.
    She walked over to the cutout door and placed her hand on
the latch. It was locked, but she'd expected that. She jiggled the
latch, pushed against the door, rammed it with her shoulder,
but it didn't budge. Something was blocking it at the bottom.
Looking between the planks, she saw a large cinder block sitting
on the ground, snug up against the door. She tried pushing it,
lying on her back and kicking at it with both feet, then sticking
the heel of her pumps through a one-inch gap between the
planks and rocking it, but it didn't move.
    Looking around the interior of the barn, she was once again
reminded of the futility of her situation. The structure had been
gutted, the loft removed. It was literally four walls, a roof, straw,
bats, and her. And the mice. A cloud of doom settled over her,
and she sat on her haunches and cried. For the first time since
waking in this prison two days ago she let the tears flow. And
flow they did. Sobs shook her shoulders and burned in her
throat for what seemed at least twenty minutes.
    When she had wiped her tears with her shirt, she rocked
back on her hands and stared at the rafters. A thought suddenly
entered her mind. A thought from somewhere deep in her past, her childhood. From where it came she had no idea since she
hadn't entertained such a thought in over two decades. When
she was a child, her mother had taken her and her brother to a
Nazarene church until her father had finally forbid it.

    The thought came again: she should pray.
    It was a silly thought, she had to admit. A childish thing to
be thinking at a time like this. Or was it? She remembered her
Sunday school teacher saying that God listened to our prayers.
That He cared. But did He care about her? Did He even know
who she was?
    She wrestled with the thought a few more moments, then
settled the matter. If God was God, then of course He knew
who she was. Whether He actually cared about her or not
remained to be seen.
    God, I know I haven't talked to You in some time.
    Praying after so many godless years felt awkward. Maybe she
should say it out loud. "I'm sorry I sorta forgot about You. That
wasn't right." She looked around the barn again, nothing but
wood and straw. "I, uh, could really use some help right now.
Please show me a way out of this. I want to live." There, it was
done. Not the most eloquent prayer He'd hear today, of that she
was sure, but it was sincere. She meant every word.
    She waited a few minutes for some great revelation to appear,
a flood of light, a booming voice, an angel in bright array, something, but nothing happened.
    Standing to her feet, she took a step toward the door again
when her toe caught on a warped board. Bending low to the floor,
she pushed straw out of the way and inspected the board. A chill
buzzed down her back. Of course! The trapdoor for shoveling
straw and hay to the animals below. Why didn't she think of it
earlier? In a barn like this, built on a small hill, there was a