Before the dark, there was firelight.

Laughter.

The sound of her brother chasing the dog through wet grass.

The scrape of her dad's thumb against banjo strings.

Smoke curling into the stars.

She remembers the way her mom's hand fit around a steaming mug of cider.

Her name in two syllables—

"W-ren."

Only her mom said it like that with her southern drawl.

Only her dad made it sound like a song.

~

The man said there was a flat tire.

That he needed help.

He looked harmless.

He said her name. Her middle name.

One she never told anyone outside of her family.

~

She remembers the cloth. The harsh smell of chemicals. The way the world slid sideways, soft at the edges.

And then:

Metal walls.

A single lightbulb.

Her scream echoing back at her.

No windows.

No clocks.

Only the thrum of a generator and the smell of bleach.

He said it wasn't forever.

He said the world outside was dying.

He said she'd thank him one day.

She said nothing.

~

Some days he brought food.

Other days, books.

He wanted her to be smart. Clean.

One day he brought her a silk dress.

She tore it to pieces and didn't speak for weeks.

He stopped smiling after that.

~

The last time she saw his face, it was hollow and there was blood spattered on his shirt.

He didn't mention it.

Just handed her an old can of soup and shut the door again.

She didn't eat.

Just waited in silence so she could hear each lock click.

One. Two. Three.

But on that fateful day, one of them didn't.