Portia
We drive for hours. Or at least it feels like hours. All I hear in the trunk of this old, beat-up sedan is rain. All I feel is every bump, every tiny stone, every pothole on the road.
My wrists are bound behind my back. My shoulders and arms ache and the zip ties they bound me with cut into the skin of my wrists. I've managed to turn myself, so my feet touch one of the rear lights. I'm not sure what I hope to accomplish though. Kicking out the light? And then what?
After a sharp, bumpy turn and a long road of what must be gravel, the car slows to a stop. My heartbeat picks up. I hadn't realized it had calmed at all during the drive. I hear men outside, smell cigarette smoke.
They're speaking Spanish.
That's the one thing of importance to note. Cartel soldiers? Makes sense. Most
