Darkness settled into shape: ceiling, crown molding. Sara tried to sit. Metal bit her wrist.
She looked left. A handcuff circled her wrist, looped to the bedpost with a short chain.
She exhaled like before a hard variation. “Of course."
The door latch clicked. Owen stepped in carrying a tray. Steam curled from a bowl. “You're awake."
“I kept trying to wake up," she said. “It didn't help."
He set the tray on the desk. “Soup," he said. “Not drugged."
“I've heard that line." “It's not drugged."
She lifted her cuffed hand. “And this?"
“It's a felony," she said “Or several."
He dragged the chair closer. “Sara, listen."
“I'm listening to the metal," she said. “It's loud."
“We're your family," he said.
“We're keeping you safe."
Her laugh was thin. “Safe from my career? My choices?"
