She lifted her head, disoriented. Her wrists were still bound, her right shoulder stiff from leaning on it. Sometime during the long, terrifying night, she’d fallen asleep in the passenger seat of the stranger’s pickup. He’d given her a balled-up sweatshirt to use as a pillow. The fabric smelled of motor oil, Marlboros and male deodorant. She straightened, glancing around. The stranger wasn’t in the cab. Janelle reached for the door handle with numb fingers. When it didn’t work, she remembered the door was locked. She scooted across the seat and tried the driver’s side door, her mind sluggish from sleep. It swung open, and she tumbled out, falling on her hands and knees in the dusty gravel. “Going somewhere?” The stranger was standing nearby, facing a concrete wall. Before turning toward her, he made a shaking motion and zipped up his pants. Heart racing, she searched for an escape route. It was early morning. They were in Bombay Beach, a local ghost town. Other than the run-down motel and a bunch of condemned buildings, there was nothing out here.
