If We Survive The Night

Maybes

Jaden

"Did you really send anyone that recording?" Casey says when the sound of the car fades outside.

"I did." I pull at my bonds again, groaning with the effort. "To my uncle."

"Wow. I could swear you were bluffing."

"Little good it does us," I grumble. "He probably hasn't even heard it yet. He starts working late, so he must be still asleep. Chances are, even when he hears it, he won't understand the urgency, not right away. He doesn't know the context."

"You just sent him the recording? No explanation?"

"I didn't have time, did I? Anyway, even if the cops get it, it's a pretty long way from it to Owen and then to us, especially if no one really knows about this cabin."

I take a deep breath, letting the chaffed skin of my wrists rest a bit. I can't free my hands, no matter how hard I try. I attempt to move my feet, but they're secured equally well to the legs of the chair. I look around, seeking inspiration. Could I perhaps jump with the chair, shove it forward with my weight, and get to the kitchen? Could he have left there the knife he'd mentioned before? And if he did, what could I do with it? Maybe I could pick it up with my teeth, and get it to the bed, and then maybe Casey, whose handcuffs allow him more freedom of movement, could try to cut my bonds?

That's way too many maybes. Owen said he'd be back soon, and this plan would take ages. Also, moving with the chair, I could easily lose balance and topple to the floor, and then I won't be able to get up. Could I possibly crawl while being tied to the chair? Maybe roll with it, somehow? Just the thought of repeatedly hitting my aching head on the floorboards makes me sick.

"I'm sorry I've gotten you into this," Casey says.

"It was my choice," I say, trying to push the chair forward with my weight. Its legs scratch the floor as it moves a bit, probably less than an inch.

"Still... this whole mess is about my family. You have nothing to do with it."

Rather than bothering with an answer, I try to move again. One of the chair legs hits the crack between two floorboards, and I freeze.

"Fuck!" I hiss.

"I'm sorry," Casey echoes.

"What're you sorry about? It's not about you, so will you fucking stop apologizing?"

I regret my tone immediately. It's not right to vent my frustration on him. I take a deep breath and close my eyes.

"Sorry," I say.

"That's okay. You can snap at me if it makes you feel better."

"I don't want to."

"Don't, then." I can hear the smile in his voice. "So, do you have a plan?"

"I used to have plenty of plans," I tell him with my eyes still closed. "I planned to go see Mom soon. I've been saving for the trip. I've never been to Mexico before."

"Maybe you will," Casey says quietly. This 'maybe' sounds like nails on glass to me, a screechy word lingering in the air. I open my eyes again and evaluate the distance to the kitchen door. Given my ability to reach it, it could as well be in China.

"You miss her, don't you?" Casey says. He's leaning with his back on the headboard, his cuffed hands on his knees, watching me.

"I do," I admit. "Is it ridiculous at my age?"

"No." He shakes his head. "I miss my Mom like crazy. And she's way farther away than Mexico."

"Yeah," I say, because there's really no good answer to that. So, I look away and focus on trying to move my chair again, changing the direction a bit to go along the crack rather than across it. The chair moves another inch.

"What're you doing?" Casey says.

"Getting to the kitchen."

"I don't think he left a knife there. He's not stupid."

"Do you have a better idea?"

He lifts a shoulder, his chains clinking softly. "Not really, no. But this won't work. It'll take you ages to get to the kitchen like this."

"You're not big on support, are you?" I pause to steady my breath. "I must still try."

"He'll be back soon."

"He might get delayed. We don't know why your sister called."

"Do you actually have a crush on me?"

The change of topic gives me pause. I glance at him, frowning.

He shrugs. "Owen thinks that you do."

"Now?" I say. "Now's the time to talk about that?"

"I'm kind of not sure we're going to have another time."

"God." I roll my eyes. He looks at me expectantly, which makes me feel defensive. "No, I don't have a crush on you." His face falls a bit, so I add, "But... you do make me curious."

"Huh?" He tilts his head. "Curious how?"

"Curious as in if you tried to kiss me, I wouldn't immediately punch you in the face."

He snorts. "Not immediately? Meaning, you'd do it later?"

"Maybe," I say grumpily, beginning to move my chair again—another inch. Then another. "If you keep annoying me, I will."

"If we get out of here, we should try that," he says. "To see how it goes."

The 'if' lingers in the air, just like the 'maybe' did before. It's weird to think about future in terms of ifs and maybes. I always knew I was going to have a future, good or bad, some version of it. The idea that tomorrow at this time I might no longer exist is something I can't quite wrap my mind around. So, I move the chair again, inch by inch. When I look up, the kitchen door doesn't seem any closer. This feels like a bad dream where you keep running but stay in the same place.

The front leg hits the crack between the floorboards again, making the chair stop. The cracks between the other boards are shallow, barely there, but this son of a bitch is deep, and I must cross it if I want to get to the kitchen. I grind my teeth and tilt my body aside a bit, trying to rise the side of the chair, to angle it in such a way that I could step with its leg onto the next floorboard.

For a moment, it seems like it's working. Then, the chair tilts more than I intended, and, as much as I try to throw my weight in the opposite direction, it's too late. I hear Casey gasp, and then I hit the floor.

Pain explodes in my shoulder and knee, as well as my already aching head. For a moment, I'm sure that the fireworks before my eyes will turn into darkness, and I'll pass out, but then my vision returns. I see the damn room again, and the bed, where Casey stands on his knees, as tall as the chain allows him, his hands clasped together. To my surprise, he looks hopeful rather than concerned.

"The leg, the leg!" he calls out. "The leg broke!" Then, with belated concern, he adds, "Are you okay?"

"Broke?" I look down, which now actually means aside, thinking that he's talking about my leg, but then I realize that he means the chair leg. Even though my knee hurts like a bitch, I don't think I've broken anything. I try to move my left leg, and it obeys, albeit awkwardly, the broken piece of wood still attached to it.

"Okay, that's good," I say, unsure how this helps us, but glad that something has finally happened that is not entirely bad. "Let's see what I can do with this."

"Try to remove the broken wood," Casey advises. "The rope will be loose, and you could free your foot. Maybe try falling on the other side, to break the other one, too?"

"One thing at a time," I mutter, rubbing my left foot against the floor, trying to get rid of the polished piece of wood still tied to my ankle. It moves a bit, partly sliding out, and then, just as I allow myself a moment of hope, we hear a distant sound of an approaching car.