The smell of burlap and oil made her woozy. Tara was hot and scared, but she could see shadows through the tight mesh of the fabric. A single bare light bulb glowed like the a sun from a distant solar system. Her face and shoulders were raw from being jostled around inside a burlap sack. She couldn't remember much. When she'd got off the elevator on level P3, huge arms wrapped around her neck, a pungent damp cloth smothered her to sleep.

She dreamed of fireflies, winking on and off, while she lay on her back surround by tall fronds, wet with dew. There were clicking sounds and a slight breeze, that carried with it, the aroma of toasted almonds. Tara rolled to one side and blackness surrounded her like the warm blanket of impending death.

"Hello?" Sam said.
"Don't say a word."
"Let me speak with Tara!"
The line went dead. He'd already broken protocol. If Sam did any of the things he was told not to...Tara would die. He may have made a grave mistake by not calling the police. Now, there was no other choice but to wait for a second chance. Kidnappers always gave second chances--like in the movies.

He poured another bourbon and looked out over the courtyard. Sam thought about the day when Tara had found this place. He remembered the excitement in her voice when she'd told him to meet her at the address in Soho. He could catch up on his writing later.
They'd fallen in love with the balcony view. The apartment needed work, but the view was priceless. Tara had said,

'Think of waking up to this Sam--a lovely morning, our bodies glistening from the heat. I'll wear one of your shirts and we'll sit out here, drink espresso, and bask in the warmth of a beautiful day. The city, coming alive before us.'

Yesterday, everything became a nightmare. The call. The package containing the dress Tara had put on that morning--the summer dress he'd liked so much, the one now with a tear in the right shoulder and the scrunched fabric where someone had torn the buttons from the front. Sam shuddered thinking about the rest.

"Please let me out, it's so hot in here. I can barely breathe," Tara asked.

The shadow of the man sitting near the suspended light moved his arm upward. She couldn't be sure, but he may have put his finger to his lips. Like a Chinese shadow puppet, the man jerked his arm back and forth, as if frantically trying to give clues in a game of pantomime. Sweat trickled down Tara's face, without thinking, she licked the warm salty liquid from the corner of her mouth.
The light went out and in the blackness, a door slammed. The sound of metal rang in dissonant notes as it hit the concrete floor. In her mind's eye, she saw a rusted tire iron and imagined a gloved hand bending to pick it up. Her eyes darted, but she couldn't see.

"I just need a little water," she pleaded. "That's all I ask--please." At that moment, she was clearly wishing to charm the men she was talking to.

She'd been wrapped in a burlap sack, laying on a concrete floor. Though it seemed impossible, when the light went out, the concrete became colder. Tara didn't move until she'd heard the breathing--deep and measured breaths, gurgling in a windpipe of phlegm. She couldn't discern whether the sound of the breathing was getting louder or closer.