The silence was the worst part. Or maybe it was the smell, that cloying, humid scent of stagnant water and oil-slicked concrete that seemed to settle on Amara's skin like a second, unwanted layer of clothing. Every beat of her heart felt like a drum echoing against the corrugated metal walls, reminding her that she was still alive, still trapped, and still very much alone.
She didn't cry. There was a cold, hard lump of panic lodged in her windpipe, sure, but she'd already spent her tears in the trunk of the car. Now, there was only a jagged, white-hot survival instinct that made her teeth ache.
Don't wait.
