Trunk

It took him 11 minutes to finally get the ropes off his wrists, the skin so slicked with blood from the scratching that they finally slithered through the restraints. The sackcloth would have to stay ziptied tightly around his neck until he could find scissors, but the bloom of streetlights above gave him enough direction as he staggered down the empty road. Until he heard her. He rolled under the nearest car, wriggling until his shoulder blades were pinned to the asphalt. It was so tight a fit, he could only fill his lungs halfway with breath, and the smell of leaking motor oil through the cloth almost made him pass out. He heard the scrape of shoes approach, and saw the frantic sweep of a cell phone’s flashlight. There was nowhere to run. Nowhere to even breathe. In less than a second, her shoes had scuffed right next to his head. She was right there. But she didn’t crouch down to tase him or drag him out. She just stood there, standing in front of the driver’s side window.