I gazed at the bathroom area and had an idea. I balanced the beanbag on the concrete half-wall, then tossed the green circular rug on top. It would shield me from the camera’s view. Bet that would piss someone off.
I wedged myself into the cramped space between the toilet and half-wall, triumphant that at least I’d outsmarted the watchers for now. Breathing deeply, I tried to calm down and consider my situation. Peering down, I studied the needle marks on my forearms, then searched the rest of my body under the gown. I found a small bandage high on my right thigh. I tore it off and discovered a thin gash. It looked to be from an incision.
Was this a hospital? It seemed more like a prison. But somebody would come retrieve me at some point. And before that happened, I needed a plan and fast.
Step one: Figure out who the hell I was dealing with. Would my rug over the beanbag trick work to make them angry? At least it would buy me a little privacy.
Step two: Find a weapon.
Step three: Get the hell out of here.
Seven
Several hours passed with no sign of people. My stomach growled; the last meal I’d eaten was breakfast the day I left Woodlawn. Was that yesterday? I could only guess. Scooping handfuls of water from the small sink, I tried to quell my complaining belly.
I crouched in my hideaway spot next to the toilet the entire time. Were they starving me until I reappeared? With nothing to entertain me, my thoughts returned to the Jensens. Had they tricked Mr. Kilpatrick at Woodlawn or had he known they would kidnap me? Perhaps they even paid him off? He'd looked all too pleased to get rid of me. Replaying the memories of the cruiser and my short passage onto the plane, I scoured my brain for any clues.
The large metal cases in the cruiser had said Frontier Medical Laboratory. The name was etched in my mind. Was that where I’d been taken? It made sense, given they'd stuck an IV into me, shaved my head, and injected something into my thigh. Not only was I caged, I was a medical lab rat.
The sound of metal slamming in the hallway broke my concentration. I scrambled to my feet and stood in the middle of the room. At the bottom of the sturdy metal door, a panel slid open that I hadn’t noticed earlier. Someone shoved a tray of food through. Heavy footsteps clomped away. Racing to the glass portal, I peered left to glimpse my captor. The man was six feet tall with a broad back and slight hunch to his shoulders. Dressed in a navy-blue shirt and pants, he had dark brown wavy hair.
I banged on the door after him. “Hey, wait. Come back!” But he disappeared from view as quickly as he had tossed my food through. Staring down at the plate, I hesitated. Could the meal contain drugs to sedate me?
I should revolt—starve myself in rebellion. But my eyes kept traveling to the large sandwich, plastic cup of corn, and crackers. My stomach rumbled again, reminding me how desperate I was. I carried the tray into my hidden corner and sniffed the contents. The smell of bread, turkey, and mayo tantalized me so, I couldn’t resist devouring the sandwich. After I licked my fingers, then the plate, I leaned against the wall.
Why hadn’t the guard at least looked into my cell? Checked I was okay? As I paced the room, an idea formed. I clutched my stomach and sank to my knees. I started groaning and writhing on the floor, hamming it up for the camera.
Then I crawled to the door and fingered the panel, trying to slide it open. After trial and error, I discovered I could press against both edges until the panel finally slid open. I thrust my hands out and wiggled them. “Help,” I yelled. “Please, help. I’m sick. I’m allergic to something in the food.” I swung my leg up and kicked the door twice. “Please, help me. I need medicine. It’s in my backpack.” Would they fall for it? I could only hope.
After a minute, footsteps sounded, and I spied a pair of black boots outside, near my fingers. A gruff, masculine voice bellowed, “What’s the problem?”
“I’m allergic. Very sick. I’ll die if I don’t get my meds… my backpack.” I gasped for air.
“Step away from the door,” he said.
I rolled back a foot and squatted, ready to pounce. Outside, a computer-generated voice said, “Access granted.” Biometrics. Damn. I wished it were old-fashioned keys that would be easier to steal.
He pushed the door open, and I braced to hurl myself at him. But as I gazed up at the same blue uniform and brown hair I’d glimpsed earlier, I recoiled. Fur-like dark hair covered his face, arms, and hands. He was unlike anyone I’d ever seen before. Instead of a nose, he had a canine muzzle. He glared at me with unblinking, almond-shaped, golden eyes that rooted me to the spot. My gaze traveled to his oversized hands and sharp claws. He held a long black baton, gripped in a ready position.
I slowly rose to my feet, then shrank away from the freakish guard. “Who are you?” I said as I edged against the far wall.
He frowned. “Sick?”
I looked at the camera, then him. “I-I… feel better now.” He seemed like he could hurt me, tear me apart with those claws. Would he?
Then he shook his head and turned to leave. “I’ll summon the doctor.”
He secured the door behind him.
Eight
“Good afternoon, Ida,” the man in the light blue sweater said. “I’m Dr. Kenmore.” He smiled. “What’s wrong? Where does it hurt? Was it
