I hear the snick of her key in the lock, and I am trapped in what must be the only room Dad’s fingerprint can’t open. My legs aren’t tied, so I straddle the chair and try to wiggle free. If I can get even a little slack, I might be able to get out. But Grandma is as good at knots as she is at meteorology. The only way I can even stand is if the chair comes with me. I throw my weight forward so the back legs come up off the floor. I do it again. And again, rocking back and forth until the chair tips forward, and I’m standing with it lashed to my back. I turn and twist, but the sharp fibers of the rope cut into my wrists, and the knots only get tighter as sweat drips into my eyes. I let the chair clunk back to the floor and sit again, facing away from the table. If I curl my fingers in and stretch, I can feel the knot that binds my hands. I finger the rough edges of rope—is there anything here that might unravel? I tug my hands apart, but again, the ropes dig into my skin, and I feel the stickiness of blood between my wrists.
