Page 4 of Pack Frenzy
My hand drops into a fist, nails biting into my palm. Pain’s better than fear. Pain’s mine. I learned that trick during those months of watching my family fall apart. Focus on something sharp, something real, something I can control.
My eyes drift to the tray they left. If Nexus thinks I’m swallowing their mystery slop, they can dream on.
I curl onto my side on the thin cot, pulling my knees to my chest. The ankle monitor digs into my skin.
Somewhere in this building—or maybe somewhere else entirely—Casey, Danica, and Kayla might be just as scared as I am. Or worse.
“You’re a Mancini”, I tell myself, but my throat closes up. “Mancinis don’t break.” But Sabrina was a Mancini too. And Mom.
I dig my nails into my palms until the sting clears my head. No. I’m not them. I’m getting out of here. And I’m finding my friends.
I bury my face into the flat pillow that smells like bleach and let myself cry, just for a minute, just until the lights go out.
Tomorrow, I’ll be strong again.
CHAPTER 2
JESS
Idon’t sleep. Not really, I just hover in that edge-place where fear hums louder than rest.
My pulse jumps at every creak in the hallway. The cot’s too thin, the air too sterile, and I stare at the gaps between the ventilation hums because silence feels like it might swallow me whole.
At some point, the air shifts, and the hum softens; the hallway goes quiet. I think maybe they’ve cut the power, but then a small voice breaks the silence.
“Goodnight, Jess.”
For a second, I think I imagined it…that soft, trembling voice reaching through the dark. The words catch on something tender, the kind of ache that almost feels good.
“Night, Lily,” I whisper back. “See you tomorrow.”
The words feel fragile, like a promise I have no way to keep.
Hopefully, I find out what the hell is going on here. Surely they don’t leave us in these cells all day, and I can scope out the place.
Tomorrow, I’ll figure out the rest: my friends, my sister, this hellhole.
Tonight, all I managed was letting one terrified girl know she still exists. It’s not much, but it’s something.
Time crawls. I count ceiling cracks (fourteen). The hallway runs east-west, I think. My cell faces north. Not that it matters because there’s no windows, no reference points to figure out the layout of this place, just endless gray.
Hours pass. Maybe two. Maybe five. Hunger sharpens from dull ache to persistent gnaw.
Eventually, exhaustion wins.
The next morning, the lights snap on like a punch to the eyes.
I bolt upright, throat dry, skin sticky with cold sweat. My head feels full of sand, but my stomach’s louder than my nerves. The metallic scrape of food carts rolling down the hallway makes me realize it’s breakfast.
It’s a brown sludge, but now with a banana tossed on the tray for extra luxury. The guard with the porn-stache slides mine through the slot with a grunt.
“Please, I-I can’t eat this,” a woman says down the hall, “I have a nut allergy. It makes me?—”
“Not my problem.” Mustache cuts her off.
He’s already moving on.
Rather than talk myself out of it, I shove the tray toward the slot.
