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His boots echo loudly as he approaches. The tip of my right index finger grips on the rubber hammer handle. I drag it a centimeter closer. I get my middle finger on it. And then my hand.
Yes! Yes! Yes!
I pull the hammer toward me, praying he doesn't hear it scraping on the floor. I get a full grip of the handle. I wriggle backward until the tension loosens on the chain around my ankle. I reel in the lasso and run over to the drying mattress. I push it onto the floor and stuff the lasso underneath. I jam my feet back in my tennis shoes, just as he breaks out of the darkness. I hide the hammer behind me as the killer stomps over to the middle of the room. He stops beneath the leak in the ceiling with a fresh tube of filler. He snaps open the seal on the tube and resumes his work on the
