“No!” I say it a lot louder this time, and even through the gag, it comes out clear enough.

I get a closed fist against my head for my trouble and teeter over, almost in slow motion, until I’m lying on my side.

The knocking continues and even as I’m wondering why he’s not answering the door, I know.

It’s not knocking. It’s a tree branch. Slapping against the side of the house.

I’m back.

I’m back in my closet. I’m back in the prison he built for me when I was thirteen. I can smell it now. The cedar lining of the closet mixed with mice and old carpet. Bile stirs up in my stomach and I know I’m going to vomit.

But I also know doing that with a gag in my mouth might kill me. Daisy, you can cope. No! Grace! Grace can cope. You are Grace!

“I know you’re a good girl, right, Daisy?”

I breathe evenly, trying to calm my pounding heart. I know what to do. I know what he wants. I know what happens if I don’t comply. Because I’ve been here before. I’ve been bound and gagged inside this closet so many times I’ll never be able to forget it.

“Daisy?” he asks, squeezing my cheeks so my chin is cupped in his hand. “Tell me you’re good.”

I know what he’s doing. Even though I never talked to them, I did see therapists for years after I was returned. He’s conditioning me. Or, since I was already conditioned, he’s re-conditioning me.

Grace, as long as you know that, you’re OK. Just don’t lose sight of what’s happening. Agree, give him what he wants. You know what happens if you don’t.

“Yes,” I mumble through my gag. “I’m good.”

“Excellent,” he says, removing the gag.

I swallow down the pooled saliva and take in deep breaths.

“Come here.” He pulls me by the elbow, making it bend and stretch unnaturally until I stand. A new pain shoots up my shoulder and I hold in a whimper and scurry closer to him to relieve the pain. That’s two injuries in the first few minutes. I need to pay better attention or he might break something.

My eyes finally open, though they are so heavy from the drugs I can only see a sliver of my surroundings. He tugs me along, making me stumble, but I recover fast because he will not slow down if I fall. He will drag me, and if I get hurt in the process, that’s my own damn fault.

I’ve played this game many times.

So I keep up and try to pay attention. I listen for sounds—birds mostly. But I can hear the whine of a small airplane engine too. Smells—now that I’m out of the closet, the mice and mildew have been replaced with the smell of a farm. Sight. The furniture is not the same. It’s all different. Gone are the tattered couches and scuffed wood tables and chairs. The floor out here is tile. New. The windows have curtains and aren’t covered in boards.

I can see the sun.

“They’re electrified,” he says. “If you try to go out the window, you’ll be shocked.”

I say nothing. I’m not allowed to talk until I’m asked a question. At least that’s how it was last time.

And even though this asshole is not going to get me to agree to his sick fantasy again, I look up at his masked face, gasp in surprise because it’s the Invisible Man and not some kid I knew from archery camp, but catch myself and nod in agreement.

This is not good. He knows about Vaughn. That’s the only reason he’s wearing that mask.

“Sit.” He points to a chair at the kitchen table, which is not the old chipped Formica with rusty metal chairs, but a new one made of glass. The chairs are trendy molded plastic. Something you might find in a high-end retro store.

“I have a good job,” he says, noticing me notice the furniture. “I told you I’d be back and we’d live happily ever after.”

No. That’s not what he said.

I take a seat in the chair. He didn’t say that.

“You didn’t want to go, remember?”

“I was sick.”

He slaps me in the head, this time not quite as hard. “You were not sick. You agreed to all of it.”

“I was sick,” I repeat, and he smacks me across the mouth this time. I taste blood, but I don’t care. I spit it out and the red stains the pristine white tiled floor. “You brainwashed me.” Another smack. More blood. “Go ahead,” I tell him, all the inner warnings now absent. “Kill me if you want.” And then I look him in the eyes. He’s not wearing the Invisible Man goggles so I can see past the mask enough to discern that his eyes are dark brown. I see a part of an eyebrow, and that too is brown. That’s more than I ever saw with that other mask he wore years ago. That one was tight against his face. This one is looser.

Eyes brown. Hair, probably brown. Maybe six feet tall. Less than two hundred pounds. Skinny, actually. Birds are singing, a small plane can fly overhead, and we’re on a farm.

I make my checklist.

This is how I got through the years after I came home. Checklists. I organized everything around me. Took notice of everything. I practiced closing my eyes so I could remember the way a place sounds. I noticed the little things. I saw the details.

And I planned.

Because even though I don’t remember him saying he’d come back for me, I must’ve known it all along. A man does not kidnap you, keep you prisoner for eight months, and then let you go with no intention of returning.

I knew he was coming.

And I’m ready.

I took self-defense. I learned how to shoot a handgun. I took yoga to help me stay calm. I studied the geography of the Midwest, because even though I never knew where I was, I knew I was on a farm. One that had both cattle and crops. He came in smelling like them both at times. Sweat and soil. That’s what he used to smell like.