Harry struggled to remain lucid. The smell of vomit was strong on the front of her shirt and the mummers drifting to her from the next room were hard to decipher. Her surroundings were barely visible through her still blurry eyes, she had no knowledge of where she was, and her recollection of how she got there was foggy at best.

She attempted to get up from the fetal position she was laying in on the cold cement floor, hoping that the room would come into focus once she was upright. She couldn't move. Something sticky clung to her wrists and ankles binding her arms and legs. She was suprised she hadn't noticed that before. Around her mouth felt the same. Come to think of it she could smell that adhesive smell that characterised netball tapes and fabric bandaids. Automatically she tried to cry out, even though she knew precisely what the result would be. A muffled grunt was all that escaped.

The voices came closer. She could begin to make out the previously instinct words through the wall. The deep smoothe sound of Sam Dupret was instantly recognisable. What was he doing there? Was he there to save her or was he responsible for her current predicament? She focussed to listen to the conversation.

A woman's voice was talking. The end of her sentence carried through the plaster clearly: "... needs to get home."

Dupret replied, "I don't mind you calling. I just wish I'd known sooner. Anyway, Ingrid, your boy did well. I'm sure he'll be pleased with what Troy's accomplished. You can rest easy knowing your family will be back in his good graces. We just need to keep her safe now until Sunday's moon. Do you know when he's getting back?"

The woman replied, "He said something about retrieving some stuff he needed as a precaution..."

The soft sounds of movement brought Harry's attention back to the room she was occupying. Her eyes flitted upon tools and cardboard boxes, landing on a figure sitting in the corner staring at her. Troy French moved in her direction, his finger to his lips in a shushing gesture. He had bags under his eyes and he looked terrified.

It all came back to her: period 4 Art class; Troy rushing her; the mannequin to her head; him carrying her as she slipped in and out, on the edge of consciousness; his mother injecting her with something in the back of their car; waking up and them ripping the gaffa tape off her mouth as her body tried to purge itself of the drug; the woman injecting her with more; and the same thing happening time and time again. She wondered how long she had been being drugged for. Was it still Friday or was it already Saturday? Troy's sunken eyes suggested he had been awake for a long time, but, based on Dupret's comment, she assumed that Sunday hadn't arrived yet. How long until it came?

"I switched your last dose with saline." Troy whispered. "I'm sorry for this, Miss. I really didn't want to do it. Even when I tried to hate you, you were still good to me. I've done what I was ordered to though; so... now it's done and you're here, there's nothing to say I can't do my own thing to even the score. Just remember, unless you do something to stop him, he'll do this all over again next new moon."

Troy pulled a pocket knife out of his shorts. He pushed her hands up towards her face and sliced the underside of her bonds. He placed them back down near her thighs, then move on to do the same near her Achilles tendons. She felt the tension reduce on the bottom side of her wrists. While her thumbs were as close together as ever, her little fingers could now separate. She twisted her elbows away from each other, preparing to peeled the tape from her wrists.

"Stop!" Troy whispered urgently. "Not now, someone'll notice. Wait until tonight when the coast is clear. If they think you've stopped vomiting, and you stay sleeping, then they won't check on you as frequently. That's your best shot."

Harry saw two problems with his plan: how would she know when it was night, and why would she all of a sudden stop vomiting when she had been doing it so often this far? But, as the sounds moved closer, she couldn't voice either of these concerns.

"Stay quiet and close your eyes." Troy said, scrambling back to his seated position. He picked up his phone and was tapping on his screen when the door opened.

Through the cracks in her lids Harry watched three bodies enter. Sam Dupret, Mrs French, and a third, a man who looked vaguely familiar to Harry. She shut her eyes more tightly as they strode fully into the room.

"I'll check on her, you get your boy ready to go," Dupret stated.

His footsteps thudded lightly as he moved in her direction.

"You won't wake her up." Troy's voice interjected, slightly cracking as he spoke. "I got sick of all the vomit, so when she finished puking, about an hour ago, I grabbed the tool box over there and brought it down on her head."

Harry heard the swishing sound as Dupret hastily kneeled beside her, and the grunt as he stopped distracted by the fact he had knelt in the copious amount of vomit upon the floor. She knew what he was about to do, and she took a moment to try to steady her heart rate as much as possible before he did it. She wished she could take a deep breathe and assume a yoga pose, but since she could do neither, she focused her thoughts on the last time she'd laid in bed with Charlie, forgetting her current situation and transporting her mind elsewhere.

Troy's continued explanation bought her some more time. "Don't worry, I emptied it out first and I've double-checked she's still alive. She's fine. I know he wants her alive."

Fingers came to rest upon the side of her neck. With all her will power she resisted the influence of Dupret's touch. She could sense his fear and wondered if he could sense hers. She doubted it mattered much, in these circumstances fear would be natural whether you were awake or knocked out - assuming you still had thoughts when knocked out? She attempted to empty her mind again. She made a list of the things she needed to do at school on Monday, hoping the neutrality would fit the general mood of a comatosed person, should he know what their minds felt like.

His fingers ran through the caked hair around her new bald spot. "Is this where you pulled her hair out yesterday, Troy?" Dupret asked. He let out a deep low chuckle. "It's already healing."

He brushed his hands over the patch that should have been scab and raw skin. Instead, she felt the tingling sensation, like when she ran her hand over her newly shaved legs.

He stroked her cheek softly, and whispered to her supposedly unconscious form, "Oh Harry, if only you had taken me up on my offer, you wouldn't be in this mess. I could have hidden you until the new moon and then had the power to keep you safe. Now, I'm held tightly by His orders and I can't help you at all. Good luck getting yourself out of this one. We're gonna be his slaves for the rest of eternity."

Dupret sighed as he got up off the ground. The leg of his pants rustled as he attempted to get them clean. His footsteps decreased in volume, signifying his return to the door.

"Thanks, Troy, we can take it from here."

The doors closed, and Harry could sense she was alone. Now there was nothing to do but wait and hope she would know when the time was right.

She hoped that time came before HE returned.