You have to try. You know how this story goes; you've written it. You know you are facing certain death if you sit here and do nothing, and you don't know how much time you have.

If you're smart about it, you might be able to wriggle your hands free. You begin to twist and writhe your hands again, squinting through the darkness at the tightly-knotted ropes. You can't afford to panic. You move deliberately, trying to angle your hands so that you can loosen the ropes.

You spend some time twisting your hands and then lean your weight back, pulling with all your strength. The ropes have already begun to chafe and burn your wrists, but there's no time to allow yourself to be distracted by pain—he could come back at any moment.

How much time passes? There's no way to tell. Too much. Way too much. You're certain that at any moment, Wes will walk into this old barn and finish his unfinished business.

With that sobering thought in mind, you lean your weight back again, and this time, the iron ring that you're fastened to creaks.

Hope lances through you, painful and clarifying. You wrench again, and the floorboard to which the ring is bolted whimpers.

You rock forward onto your knees and tuck the balls of your feet under yourself, then lean back onto your haunches. There isn't a lot of wiggle room, but when you strain, you can stretch your hands just enough to wrap your fingers securely around the iron ring. Now that you've got your legs under you, you draw a breath, trying to still the pounding of your head, and jerk yourself up with all the strength in your legs.

Another creak is your only reward. The tight knot of pain in your back, as if you've pulled a muscle, is much more of a punishment—and so is the gut-punch of nausea.

"Come on," you groan. Don't panic, Kendall, don't panic, you say to yourself in your head. Don't panic.

But you're panicking. You can feel tears burning in the back of your throat, and, insanely, you're begging an old, rotten floorboard to have mercy on you. "Come on. Come on. Break."

You jerk yourself up again. The board lifts slightly before snapping back down, and you give a sharp cry of protest.

Closing your eyes, you beg whatever powers you believe in for help, and you brace yourself one more time. With all your strength, you haul yourself up again, your legs pistoning beneath you to leverage you off the floor...and the iron ring tears free of the board, sending you sprawling onto the floor of what must once have been a livestock pen.

It's all you can do not to sob with relief. The impact of your fall sends a stab of pain through your stomach and makes your stomach roll again, and this time, your gorge rises, but you choke back the urge to be sick with all the will remaining to you. You have already made far too much noise—

—and suddenly, you hear a woman's voice.

"Wesley? Wesley, please..."

You can think of only one reason you wouldn't be in this barn alone, and it isn't good. You need to find this woman and help her. [[Go to Chapter 20.]]

For all you know, that woman could be Wes's accomplice, or even a twisted girlfriend. You woke up in a barn-turned-dungeon with a noose around your neck. Escape first, ask questions later. [[Go to Chapter 21.]]