When I woke up, I was tied to a chair in what looked like every serial killer’s basement I had ever seen on TV. The room was musty and dark, and only a single bare bulb provided light from a dozen feet away near a rickety, wood staircase. I had the urge to scream, but I knew from instinct that the only person who would hear me was the one who had kidn*pped me. Somehow, it seemed better to let that person think I was still unconscious.
I tried to free my hands and feet, but they were bound tight with what felt like shoelaces. I could see a greenish desk with a metal top against a wall just to my right, and in front of me on a small, black table I saw a bottle of Gatorade and a Luna bar. Despite my terror, I registered two things that made me laugh. First, that lemon-flavored Luna bar was m
