Resting his chin on the scuffed knees of his trousers, he watched a spider hiding in a crevice beneath the door latch. Only a bit of daylight slipped through the scattered bullet holes that pockmarked the opposite panel. The spider’s body—fat and spiked, legs like crooked needles—trembled as the van drove over rough roads, which meant they had left the capital far behind. Allard’s instructors had mentioned that spiders spin many different kinds of webbing, some stronger than steel, some so gossamer light that infant spiders use it to fly away. He wished he could fly away. A metal manacle encircled his left wrist, chafing it raw. Attached to the manacle was an unbreakable plastic cord no more than two feet long, which bound him to the side of the van. It was so short it prevented him from touching the door. A steady ache already inhabited his shoulder—he’d been in the van at least two hours. He worried it might be more. His captors played the State music stream from the speakers, loud enough for him to hear in the back of the van.
