NIA

The room pretended to be gentle.

Soft lamp. Pale walls. A tray with a carafe and two glasses arranged like the promise of hospitality. It would almost have passed for a waiting room in a boutique clinic—if not for the bolt on the door, the metal chair bolted to the floor, and the camera tucked high in the corner where the plaster blistered.

My wrists were still bound, though someone had loosened the rope just enough to keep my hands from going numb. The skin under the cords burned. ...