Page 87 of Iron Roses

Multiple pairs.

I don’t hear voices. Just the thud of boots across wood and the creak of boards shifting.

I try to speak. Nothing comes out. My throat is dry. My tongue won’t form the shape of words.

The back door opens.

I hear a voice. Low, flat, impatient.

“Get her.”

Hands grab my ankles first, then under my arms. The movements aren’t gentle.

I’m pulled from the car like a sack. My body hits the cool air. I twitch once—reflex, not control.

They lift me upright.

My legs give out instantly.

My knees collapse.

One of them curses. I’m hauled upward again, dragged rather than walked. My feet scrape against planks. I feel each crack in the wood under my heels.

We’re moving.

The sea is unmistakable. The rocking is subtle, but my stomach rolls. My head dips forward as I’m pulled along.

There’s a low humming in my ears. It could be the engine. Or my pulse.

A set of metal stairs clunks under our feet.

Downward.

We stop.

A door groans open.

A clang. Bars.

My knees are forced to bend as they shove me inside.

The floor is grating—cold and metal. My knees hit first. I grunt, unable to catch myself.

Hands release me.

I slump forward. My forehead touches iron.

Then the door slams shut behind me.

A lock clicks.

I’m left on the floor, body still bound, mind moving slower than it should.

I breathe through my nose in short, shallow gasps.

A minute passes. Maybe two.

Then I hear footsteps again.

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