The phone pings. On the dimly lit screen, a text: I know where you are. My heart stops. I’m still breathing, but there’s no pulse or sound or heartbeat. The phone drops onto the bed. No. No no no no no no no. I was supposed to be untraceable. How could this happen? I bite into my lower lip until I taste blood. Every cell in my body is screaming, Get out! Get out! Get out! Or do they want me to run? Hope I’ll be spooked and charge into the open, too scared to think or fight? A moving car’s door opens, there’s a hand, I’m taken. The ice pick is in my hand like a sixth finger. I keep it under the pillow. The phone pings again: I know. Cold hands, cold feet, my right knee bouncing a staccato rhythm on the bed. I’m trying to think, but I can’t—not over the sound of silent screaming. Get out! Get out! Get out! This phone felt like a lifeline. Turns out, it was the human version of the locator chip we put in Gertie when she was a puppy. Luna has my number. What did they have to do to get her to fork it over?
