"This used to be an old prison, they tell me," Mike said, holding her back by the shoulders and indicating the area with a sweep of the hand. "They used to put incorrigibles in here the army, that is. We've turned it to other purposes."

Carla could only imagine what those purposes were. A sudden rush of fear overwhelmed her once again as she thought of the belt, the way it had reddened her flesh and how its sting was still felt around her rump.

"I took this over several years ago," Mike continued, shoving her roughly forward between her shoulderblades while slamming the door behind her. Carla stumbled forward, sweeping the hair from her face, regaining her balance. Mike was quickly behind her. "It was going downhill. The woman who ran the place didn't know how to manage kids these days. You need a firm hand, firm like mine, Carla."

He stroked the back of her head, then curled his fingers and grabbed a fistful of her hair. Carla let out a short moan, her teeth chattering against one another. No. No! She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of crying put again.

"Keeping quiet? Good. I like that kind of strength. In here."

He let go of her hair, shoving the woman down another long corridor. Small yellowish overhead bulbs lit the cement corridor, a musky smell filling the air. Taking the keys from his belt, Mike opened a large green wooden door and motioned her inside.

"Here?"

A cold sweat broke out on Carla's forehead. As long as they had been walking, as long as they hadn't yet reached their goal, there seemed to be time to hope something would happen – someone would come to her rescue, notice her shuffling in front of this maniac, bare-footed, her dress ripped in several places, her hair ruffled around her shoulders. But now all hope sank as Carla stepped over the small concrete rise in the doorway.