The PanicI couldn’t move.
A small, round room, brightly lit, a few paces in any direction.
Not entirely round: hexagonal, each section of gun-metal gray joined to the next by a stout steel bar.
The section before me had a metal counter in the same gray, bearing a panel. The panel held an array of buttons and levers and lights, all dark. A large window stood beyond that.
A wooden armchair around me. A bare bulb high overhead.
The room spun; I felt sick.
My hands behind me rasped against rough fibers. My waist was bound by hemp as thick as if three of my fingers pressed together. And as hard as I tried, my ankles wouldn’t come free from the chair.
I thrashed, pulled against my bonds. I heard nothing but my ragged breathing and the pounding of my heart.
I had to get out.
The chair wo
