Ethan's eyes refused to open as if kept shut by glue. He was awake but exhausted; everything hurt, from the tips of his fingers to the soles of his feet. His liver hurt like a spike jabbed in his side; his joints felt like they were about to snap. Even his skin, especially on his arms and head, pained him as if it were pressing on jagged glass.

"Why did you keep him?" Ethan heard a voice say. It came from far away. The gravelly voice sounded like it was from a man with a throat ravaged by smokes.

"You saw the car when you came in, didn't you?" another man asked.

"Yeah, what the fuck. Why are there bullet holes in it?" the first asked. "You can't sell it like that."

"Don't know; don't care," the second answered. "You'll scrap it for parts. What's important is that the kid was driving it."

"So?" the first asked.

"Don't interrupt," the second reprimanded. "If his parents are loaded, we'll ransom him. If he's just a thief, we'll wait for him to heal, see if he's good, or trash him."

The first man tutted and walked away. He must have had a limp, as Ethan could hear the unevenness of his steps.

Whatever was happening around him, Ethan couldn't think over what he heard. The memories of the attack, of the murder of his father and the torching of his home, flooded his mind. It was a torrent of fear and pain that replayed in excruciating detail, reminding him of the reasons for each wound he was suffering now.

Then came the realization - his father was dead. An invisible weight crushed his chest, making it hard to breathe, while his eyes tried to cry but couldn't. It swallowed him whole, drowning the physical pain in a haze of panic. Soon he fell into a half-state between fright and oblivion, fighting to keep awake as his body tried to shut down from the agony.

A feminine humming reached Ethan's ears. The sound stopped the spiral and brought him back. He still suffered from countless physical afflictions, but his mind found something to distract itself with. The humming came from beside him, as if its source was sitting next to Ethan.

There were rapid clicks accompanying the humming – a keyboard. 'Too soon! You have awakened me too soon,' Ethan heard a voice say from hushed speakers. She was playing a video game.

A landline rang in another room. It was picked up by the second man Ethan had heard. He asked who it was and, after hearing the answer, hung up and left the room.

'I need to call for help,' Ethan thought. He forced his eyes open to take in the blinding sight of the dimly lit dorm room. Beds lay next to each other as if he were in a field hospital in a World War Two movie. He still wore his bloodied clothes, but the blood had had time to cake and flake away. 'There is no one to ransom me to; as soon as he realizes that I'll be in danger.'

"The doctor said you shouldn't move," the woman said. Ethan turned his gaze to see the girl that had opened the door. She spoke without looking at him; her eyes were locked on the screen of her laptop. The grey slab of a computer looked disproportionate to her. "He also said you need water as soon as you can drink."

Ethan scanned his own body to see that his shirt had been cut open on the side. Someone had sutured a long gash along his flank. It was a poor job, and it would leave a massive scar once healed. The cut on his shoulder had been hastily patched with band-aids that were now black with dried blood. The scrapes on his forearms had been left untouched. 'I doubt it was a doctor.'

"Do you want to drink?" she asked while nodding to the side. A glass of water was waiting there.

Ethan's throat was too dry to answer, and he simply grabbed the glass while lifting his chest and placing his back against the bed frame. The wound on his flank flared with pain, and he spilled some of the water on the bedding. He fought through the pain and sniffed the liquid before inspecting its contents. It looked clear and didn't smell. He drank it; it felt like a frozen snake moved through his chest and into his stomach, pressing against his wound and flaring it once again.

"Better?" she asked, still not moving her gaze away from the screen.

"I need to call someone," Ethan said. He looked at the laptop. "Can I use Skype on your laptop?"

"They don't let us use the internet," she denied.

"Ok, I'll just use the phone in the other room," Ethan said. He rotated himself out of bed. Pain jolted up his legs like lightning as he stood up. His muscles spasmed, his joints locked, and his wounds tore at him with enough pain to make him gasp. He had to lean against the bed, breathing through clenched teeth. The room tilted and blurred.

"You shouldn't –" she began, but he cut her off with a raised hand.

Ethan steadied himself and took a step toward the door. His left hand brushed the wall for balance, his right pressing against his wounded side. The hallway outside was dim. Yellow stains marred the false ceiling, and it smelled of dust and urine.

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The girl followed him, her laptop left open behind her. "You can't go there," she whispered urgently. "You can't go into his room."

He took another step, and the pain hit again. He inhaled deeply and kept going. His breath came ragged, echoing in the hallway.

"Please," she said, reaching out, but she didn't touch him. She looked as scared as last night, or even more so.

He grabbed the doorknob and turned it; it was unlocked. Ethan pushed the door open. The buzz of a neon filled the space. It was cobbled together from salvaged furniture to look like an office. A shuttered window lay on the wall, giving onto a large mechanic shop where the car Ethan fled with was. It was being dismantled by a man dressed in working blues.

Ethan stumbled toward the phone. Each step drew another wince from him. Faint drops of blood clattered on the floor under him, seeping out of his side. He picked up the receiver and dialed one of the few numbers his father had him memorize in case of emergency.

It rang for an eternity until a faint click. A familiar voice announced itself, "Everett and Draycott, John Draycott speaking."

"John, it's… it's Ethan." His voice cracked halfway through the short sentence, the dryness of his throat turning the words into a rasp. "It's Ethan Reed. I need help."

There was a pause. A long one. When John spoke, his tone had changed – brittle and teeming with restrained anger. "Ethan Reed is dead."

"No. John, listen to me. I escaped. There were people, armed men, they –"

"Enough!" The word came sharp. The old lawyer sighed. "You are not the first one, you understand? Since the fire, I've had a dozen people call claiming to be long-lost family members, but no one has had the stones to claim to be his son."

Ethan's chest tightened. "John, I swear –"

John hung up, leaving Ethan to listen to a continuous tone, stunned.

"We really need to leave," the girl said, restraining herself from pulling at Ethan's shirt.

Ethan hung up and picked the receiver back up before calling nine-nine-nine.

Ethan barely got the second nine out before the door slammed open. The neon light flickered from the shock. A burly, giant man burst through, his white shirt stained with alcohol. He crossed the room in two strides and ripped the phone cord from the wall. It broke the wall plug.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?!" the man roared.

Ethan turned, but too slowly. The man's fist crashed against Ethan's jaw, snapping his head sideways. Ethan's breath caught, the air punched out of him. His side flared in white-hot agony; he felt the stitches tear. Ethan hit the wall hard, metal drawers rattling as he slid down to the floor. The taste of copper filled his mouth.

The man loomed over him, his shadow spilling across the desk, his breath reeking of booze. He spat, grabbing Ethan by the collar and hauling him upright. "You stay put in your bed; is that understood? You little piece of –"

The rest of the insult vanished in a haze of red. Something inside Ethan snapped. The room's noise dulled into a distant hum, replaced by the pounding of his own heartbeat.

The man raised his hand again, arming a slap.

Pain screamed through Ethan's body, but it no longer mattered. He drove his extended left hand into the man's side, striking his liver.

The man dropped Ethan and stumbled, more shocked than hurt.

In an instant, Ethan was on top of the man, hammering his fist wherever he could reach in reckless abandon. His vision tunneled onto the man, his image mixing with Ethan's father's killer's. Nothing of reason or restraint remained, only violence. He struck the man in the chest, throat, and jaw. Each strike was clumsy and wild but had strength.

The girl stared at the scene. She was stunned, but the earlier fear she wore had vanished.

The man swung again, catching Ethan in the temple. The world tilted, sparks bursting behind his eyes.

As the man tried to stand up, grabbing the edge of the desk, Ethan slammed his head into the man's nose. A wet crunch followed, and hot blood sprayed across Ethan's cheek.

The man roared in rage and pain, driving a knee into Ethan's gut. The air left him.

Ethan tried to punch again, but his arm was sluggish. His strength was leaking away.

The man seized Ethan's collar, shoved him back, and landed a brutal blow to his ribs. Then another. Then one to the face that sent him crashing to the ground.

Ethan tried to rise, but his limbs refused. The room spun, colors smearing into one another. He felt the man's boot collide with his chest once, twice – dull thuds that barely registered through the numbness taking hold.

The man stood over him, panting, his nose leaking blood, his eyes wild. He bends over the desk to open a drawer and retrieve a long hunting knife. "I should have left you to die on the street."

"Stop!" the girl screamed. She moved forward, grabbing the man's arm with both hands. "Stop it, Dad!"

The man froze, chest heaving, nostrils flaring. His face was a mess of fury and blood. For a moment, he looked ready to strike her too. He looked at her for a while and back at Ethan. "You get him back in his bed and get me his name. If he pulls something like that again, it'll be your fault. You get it?" The last words were accompanied by him pointing the knife at her.

"Yes," she said, voice cracking before steadying again.

"Who did he call?" her father asked.

"No one," she lied. "You stopped him."

Her father stared at her for a long time, the muscles in his jaw tensing. He shot Ethan a glare, grabbed him, and threw him outside the room. He exited after the girl and locked the door before walking to the end of the corridor, where he unlocked, crossed, and locked a heavy metal door.

After helping him back to his bed, the girl stitched back Ethan's most grievous wound. It looked better than the previous job, though it would still leave a scar. Once done, she gave Ethan a roll of bandages. "Hide it; he doesn't know I can do that."

"Thank you," Ethan said. He spun the bandage around his stomach and tightened it. He finally noticed that someone else was in the room, another young girl curled in her bed, sobbing. "What is happening here?"

"A lot," she answered, following his gaze. "But don't worry, once he knows how rich you are, he'll get a picture to the lawyer guy that gave an interview about the fire. You'll be safe soon, ok?"

"What do you know?" Ethan asked.

"People tried to rob your home. Both you and your dad are presumed dead, but there was not enough left to be sure," she answered.

"If he learns who I am, he'll realize the police are already involved," Ethan said, extrapolating. He surprised himself with how calm and focused he was. He coughed a spatter of blood into his hand. "Even if they can trace the first call I made, he might have the time to make me disappear before they come ask questions."

"What do you want to do?" she asked.

"Lie that I'm unconscious," Ethan orders. "I'll need a hairpin, paperclip, or anything metal and thin. I'm guessing the door he left through is the only way out."

She nodded.

"Once I'm out, I'll get the police here, ok?" Ethan said.

She nodded once more.

Ethan lay back down onto the bed. "What's your name, by the way?"

"Olivia," she answered.

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