Prologue
Drip goes the sweat on Debbie’s cheek down to her moth-eaten sweater—wrists red and raw from the polypropylene looped and fasted tightly against her thumping pulse. She heaves, eyes shifting side to side only to gaze upon pure darkness, the sensation of crust-dried blood matting her loose curled hair from the back of her head giving her a sticky uncomfortable feeling.
Fear. She should feel it from the soles of her feet to the chatter of her teeth—creeping up her spine and making itself at home within the corners of her mind, and yet, there was nothing. Only the long and painful stretch of anticipation of what’s to come soon, even as she draws an image of herself plastered upon factory manufactured cartons of milk with the bold and loud “MISSING” text floating above an unflattering image taken right out of her high school yearbook, braces and all.
