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I stood, debated for a second whether to shut the door and risk someone locking it behind me, or leave it open and risk someone coming up behind me with a gun. I left it open, not because it was the best option, but because I just didn’t want the door shut on me in the cell. Part claustrophobia, part just having been locked in too many places waiting for things to eat me. Sometimes I think that last part contributes to the claustrophobia.

It had been bad on the black and white monitor, but it was worse in person. Peter was curled into the tightest ball he could manage. His hands tied behind his back, tied ankles tucked up tight to his bare butt. His clothes were still bunched around his knees, and the expanse of pale flesh looked incredibly vulnerable. She’d meant to humiliate him, leaving him like this. The blindfold was still in place, cutting a bright patch of color across his dark hair. His mouth was stained with drying blood, his lower lip already swollen, bruises beginning to spread across his face like ugly lipstick from an overzealous kiss.

I didn’t try to be quiet. I tried to hurry. He heard me coming because he started talking through the gag. I could understand him.

“Please don’t, please don’t.” He kept saying it over and over in a progressively more frantic voice until his voice broke, not from adolescence, but from fear.

“It’s me, Peter,” I said.

He didn’t seem to hear me, just kept begging over and over.

I touched his shoulder, and he screamed. “Peter, it’s Anita.”

I think he stopped breathing for a heartbeat, then he said, “Anita?”

“Yeah, I’m here to get you out.”

He started to cry, thin shoulders shaking. I drew one of Blade’s blades and fitted it carefully between his wrists, jerking upward. The cord sliced clean under the sharp, sharp blade. I tried to lift the blindfold off of him, but it was too tight.

“I’m going to have to cut the blindfold off, Peter. Don’t move.”

His breathing slowed, and he held still while I slid the blade between the cloth and the side of his head. It was harder to cut than the rope because it was tighter to his skin and just a bad angle. But the blade finally sliced through it, and the cloth fell away. I had an impression of red marks in his skin where the blindfold had marked him. Then he flung himself on me, hugging me.

I hugged him back, knife in one hand.

He whispered, “She said she was going to cut it off when she came back.” He didn’t start crying again. He just held on. I rubbed his back with my free hand. I wanted to give him comfort, but we had to get out of here.

“She won’t hurt you anymore, Peter. I promise that, but we’ve got to get out of here.” I pulled back from his desperate arms until I could see his face and he could see mine. I held his face in my hands, the knife carefully pointed up. I looked into his eyes. They were wide and shocky, but there wasn’t much I could do about it now.

“Peter, we have to go. Ted’s getting Becca, and we’re leaving.”

Maybe it was his sister’s name, but he blinked and gave a small nod. “I’m okay,” he said, which was the best lie I’d heard all night.

But I accepted it and said, “Good.” I had to stand to reach the ropes at his ankles. He was just that tall or I was that short. The hug had put him facing forward, and he seemed suddenly aware that he was exposed. He started grabbing at his underwear and pants while I tried to cut his ankles free.

I had to pull the knife back. “If you don’t hold still, you’re going to end up cut.”

“I want my clothes on,” he said.

I stood at the foot of the bed, and said, “Get dressed.”

“Don’t look,” he said.

“I’m not looking.”

“But you’re looking at me,” he said.

“But I’m not looking at you.” But I couldn’t explain it to him, so I turned and looked at the door while he struggled into his pants.

“You can look now.”

He had everything zipped and buttoned, and just that had taken some of the raw terror out of his eyes. I cut his ankles free, sheathed the knife, and helped him to his feet. He jerked away from me, then almost fell because the ankles had been tied