In my first panic, I struggled wildly, tying to break free of the straps. It was no good. They were made of some kind of canvas, strong. And the chair was bolted to the floor. I couldn’t budge it. I thrashed and pulled, trying to rip myself out of the chair or to rip the chair out of the floor by main strength. Finally, I slumped, out of breath, exhausted.

The next moment, I heard voices. I tensed. I lifted my head, held still, listened. They were men’s voices, murmuring, right outside the room, right outside the metal door.

My first instinct was to shout to them, to scream for help. But something stopped me. If I was here, someone had put me here. If I was hurt, someone had hurt me. Someone had strapped me in this chair. Someone had used those instruments on my flesh. The odds that the men outside that door were my friends seemed very slim.

So I kept my mouth shut. I listened to the low voices, straining with all my might to make out what they were saying over the pounding of my own pulse.

“… Homelander One,” said one voice.

A second voice said something I couldn’t hear.

Then the first voice said, “We’ll never get another shot at Yarrow.”

When the second voice answered, I could only make out part of it: “… two more days… can send Orton… knows the bridge as well as West.”

West. That was me. Charlie West. What were they talking about? What bridge? I didn’t know about any bridge.

The flame of panic roared through me again. Without thinking, I renewed my struggles. Trying to pull my arms up, trying to wrestle my body free, trying to tilt the chair one way or the other. Useless, all of it.

Tears came into my eyes-tears of terror and frustration. This couldn’t be happening. It didn’t make any sense. Where were my mom and dad? Where was my life? Where was everything? It had to be a nightmare. It had to be.