Music notes pounded into Charlie's ears, beating a rhythmic sense of semi-consciousness into her. Dully, she registered the smooth voice of Vick Nightingale, the lead singer of the band Octavia, as it rose and fell in perfect harmony with the instruments.

How are they already playing? she wondered.

It made no sense. Octavia was the headliner of Metalfest and wasn't set to play until that night. It wasn't even midday yet...it hadn't been midday when she closed her eyes. Why did she close her eyes?

It was a fleeting puzzlement. She couldn't bring herself to care much. Charlie was just so unbelievably tired. She'd love to go back to sleep, even if she was laying on something hard and uncomfortable...even though she was missing the concert and her throat was bone-dry. She coughed. Softly at first, then harder. So hard it burned like an inferno.

Finally Charlie was awake. Everything rushed back. Shay. Missing. Jake. Where the hell was she? What happened?

Instead of the open outdoor concert scene, she found that she was in a room. This room was small, filthy, with a grimy counter along one wall. An old canister of Popsicle sticks were spilled on the counter, resting under a coat of dust that had been gathering for however many years. Beside that was a sink with a tall faucet spout, the inside filled with dirty, discolored rolls of gauze. There was no window. There was nothing else except debris on the floor, and an old chair, the kind dentists have, with Charlie strapped into it.

"Help!" Charlie screamed. The words were as dry as her sandy throat and were no contest against Octavia, pouring through a speaker in the ceiling.

She struggled against the old straps. A hopeless feeling curled in her stomach, the way a sly cat circles the area it has claimed as its bed before settling down.

Don't lose it, Charlotte, she thought. Don't you dare lose it in here.

She jerked at the restraints desperately and heard a snap. Her left hand, with the cuff still around the wrist, a leather strap hanging down, worked at the right cuff. It was like unbuckling a dress shoe--which she was not a fan of as much as she was not a fan of being tied up by psychos.

She was pretty sure it was Jake. It was hard to remember exactly, but she was sure she'd heard his voice before something closed over her face and everything went away. The sicko probably had Shay here somewhere, too. Shay may be laying in another chair, only her straps could be stronger. Less worn and rotted. She must be so scared. Charlie would find her, no matter what, and get them both out of there.

Once she was standing, she scanned the room more thoroughly, this time being able to interact with it. The cabinets were locked tightly. She moved the gauze in the sink and saw nothing hidden beneath. Desperation squeezed at her chest, made her throat feel no larger than a straw. She was sure that walking out that door without a weapon was a bad idea. Staying in the room was a bad idea. There was nothing. Just the chair, the sink, the cabinet--wait!

"Please, please, please," Charlie whispered.

She wrapped her fingers around the sink's  long faucet and turned it to the left. It didn't budge. Quitting wasn't an option. Not now, when it could be life or death. She tightened her grip, put her knees against the cabinet and let them dig in as she pulled the thin metal pipe. Her chest heaved, her brow dampened with sweat, her hands almost cramped up, but finally it loosened. That sucker was on there good. It twisted and twisted until Charlie started to doubt there was an end before it finally came apart.

The pipe was as good as a crowbar, and only a bit longer. She held it from the straight end and went for the door. Maybe Jake was on the other side. Good, she thought, eager to take a swing.

Charlie reach for the door. The music playing over the speaker stopped, and so did she.

"I wouldn't do that," a deep, distorted voice said.