I catch glimpses of the captive through the shifting bodies of my friends, sliding in beside Poppy as they come to a stop in a rough semicircle at the back of the car. I try not to allow empathy a place in my heart at the sight of the young man at my feet, but it's difficult, no matter what he's done.
Brick lies on his side, hands and feet cruelly bound with dirty rope, trickles of blood seeping from his wrists where he's struggled to free himself. His face is a mass of forming bruises, one eye closed over, the socket filled with crusted blood from a cut on his forehead. It's clear someone's been busy interrogating him while I reflected on my present position and I feel a surge of guilt no one did anything to stop the beating.
Until I remember Poppy, how he tried to kill her. And all of
