A painting is not a picture of an experience.
It is an experience.
-Mark Rothko
***
Daisy hands me her coat. Like a caretaker, she pulls it over my head, careful with the fabric, and making sure it does not hit my face.
Then she helps me up.
"My father?" I whisper out my question.
"Unconscious," Daisy says.
I nod and we silently walk out of my prison.
I look around, taking in what looked to be a shed. My father's body is there, unconscious and tied up.
Daisy still has her arm around me as she pulls out her cellphone, pressing it to her ear.
She waits several seconds before I hear the other line click and the sound of Jay's voice faintly coming through.
"Little Moon, where are you?"
Daisy smiles into the phone, but it's a sad smile. "Hey, hot stuff. We found her."
There is a
