The Damp Air

The damp air stabbed into Vania’s lungs. Rust, dust, and oil mingled in the cold warehouse, the dim lights dangling high above casting long shadows of the kidnappers pacing back and forth. Her hands were still bound, but her survival instinct refused to let fear take over.

Her eyes darted to the iron door at the far end of the room. Every few minutes, one of the guards stepped outside to take a call or smoke. That thin chance—she had observed it again and again.

If I stay still, I’ll die here, she thought.

When one guard turned his back, Vania bolted toward the door. She forced...