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spent syringe.
    She said, “I’m so sorry, dear. There’s no time to explain things. You have a plane to catch.”

Chapter Four
    “ She’s awake .”
    “ It’s been three hours. It’s time for another dose .”
    “ Won’t be long before the other wakes too .”
    A hand touched hers and disturbed the IV tube in her arm. Addey’s eyes were thin slits. She was lying on the floor of a private airplane. The engine rumbled her torso, turning her stomach into an acidic cage of fighting butterflies. Two men tended to her body. One man was covered in sweat, the other enjoying a glass of Scotch. Beside her, another man was asleep. His face was drug-relaxed. He was like her—taken, manipulated, being delivered somewhere.
    “ Whu , what am I doing here?” The effort of talking threatened to send her back into the deep chasm of a coma-rest.
    The Scotch drinker stared down at her without a word. He slugged back his beverage and shook his head as the other fitted her IV bag with a dose of a clear substance.
    Her eyes rolled into the back of her head, and she returned to sleep.
     
     
    The engine’s churning was no more. She was in an isolated room this time. She rested on a cot with a fibrous blanket on top of her. It was dark green, army issue. The bedsprings were shift sensitive. The room was sterile with the tang of bleach and unkempt skin. They had supplied her with new clothes, but no makeup, or deodorant, or the niceties of a female. Thank God I’m not on my period right now.
    The room was empty aside from a sink, a mirror and the stranger.
    She yipped in fright and pulled the blanket over her body, though she was fully dressed. The painful blush and sting of embarrassment quickly turned into reproach. “Who the fuck are you? Who let you in?”
    The stranger sitting beside her bed was in his midthirties. He wore a Yankees fitted ball cap, black tie, black button-up shirt and beige khaki pants. The holster around his hips was loaded with mace, a radio receiver and a .22 caliber pistol. His freshly shaven face was warm, the smile genuine, though he had tired eyes. Everybody she’d met through the last few days had that look of deep exhaustion. These people were working overtime without a vacation. She also noted his curly, licorice-black hair and tanned skin. He was of Mexican heritage.
    “I apologize for being the creeper leering at the side of your bed.” He extended his hand, leaving it out until she shook it. “My name is Richard Cortez. I’ll be your advisor. You’re one of the unlucky people who fell into their midst. I understand your fear and anger. It’s in everybody I meet.”
    “My name is—”
    “Addey Ruanova. You’re the daughter of Carlos and Norma Ruanova. They married in 1977. You were born in 1981.” He eyed his clipboard. This was the part of the job Richard seemingly relished. “Oh yes, you made the A honor roll in second grade. Your t-ball team went to the state championship, but you lost to the Sharks. You busted your head on the pavement skating downhill once. Ten staples in your scalp. Ouch.”
    He paused, waiting for a reaction. Something about taking in her life’s accomplishments and downfalls returned her to normalcy. “Keep going. What else do you know about me?”
    Richard arched his brow inquisitively. “Okay. You were part of the drill team for the first two years of high school; then you started working at the Sunshine Motel full-time. You sold blood on a regular basis, fifty dollars a pop. You lost your virginity to Mario Martinez. You guys rented out a room at your workplace under a fake name. But you regretted it. Didn’t the school call him the Wesley Snipes of pussy?”
    “Yeah, whatever the fuck that means. And how the fuck do you know that?”
    “Hey, you asked.”
    “And for the record, Mario did get me into the hotel room, but he drugged my drink. I was sixteen. Other friends were supposed to join us, and oh, oops, they mysteriously didn’t show up. It