Inside the restroom, I take a moment to examine my face in the mirror. In the bathroom in my bedroom, back in my prison, there's a mirror made of acrylic, or plexiglass, or something like that, like the ones they put in daycare centers, so that little kids wouldn't hurt themselves. I'm not allowed around sharp objects, or those that can be turned into ones. The closest I get is the plastic fork that I receive with my lunch. Even plastic knives aren't allowed.

Anyway, the reflection in a plexiglass mirror isn't as sharp or precise as that in a real one, and so now I feel like I see myself properly for the first time in ages. I look skinny, and a bit unkempt. My long hair hasn't been brushed since morning—but he hadn't warned me that we were going out, just fetched me from the cafeteria and took me here.

Fetched. The word has a new taste to it now, all wrong. Maybe I'll stop using it.

My eyes are panicky, like those of a cornered animal. Like I'm in danger. Of course I'd feel that way. My routine of five years has been smashed to smithereens tonight, and I'm about to break it even more, or at least try to.

I look up at the wall and see a little window. It's partly ajar, but I can open it all the way. It's small, but, as I said, I'm skinny. I could get through.

I almost feel like crying. There's no way he just let me go into a bathroom alone, and there's a window that I can open and slip through. There's no way I get such a lucky break. All I need is to get out and run to that gas station and ask someone to call the police, and hope they arrive before Aiden realizes something's wrong. He won't try anything with too many witnesses present—I hope so, at least. If shifters and their involvement with human affairs hasn't been discovered for centuries, they must be very good at being discreet, at never drawing attention to themselves.

Of course, there's the promise I gave Aiden, that I won't try anything, which bothers me a little. But promises given to a kidnapper shouldn't be worth anything. I only hope that he won't get into too much trouble because of what I'm about to do. I don't want him to get hurt—hell, he's been the first person who showed me any kindness in a very long time. It's just that I need to get free, and this might be my only chance.

I stand on my tiptoes and open the window, letting in a wave of fresh air, mixed with the smell of gas and a bit of cigarette smoke. I reach up, grab the window ledge, and pull myself up and out. My shoulders get momentarily stuck, but I wriggle my way through—one shoulder, then the other. My waist and thighs pass through without a hitch. There's nothing to grab outside, so I just fall, landing on my side on the dirt ground with patches of dry grass sticking out of it.

It's done. I'm out.

I start to get up, then freeze when someone says, "What do you think you're doing?"

My blood runs cold. I look up slowly, but it's not Aiden. It's that bald guy I saw earlier, the one who was talking with the waitress. Now he stands by the back door of the diner, a few steps away from me, a cigarette in his hand, watching me suspiciously.

Shakily, I get up. His frown deepens and he flings the half-smoked cigarette away, turning to me.

"Trying to get away without paying?"

"No, no!" I shake my head as he steps closer. I could perhaps still dart to the gas station, but he'd catch up with me, and would surely yell or something, which could draw Aiden's attention. Scratch the gas station, I need a new plan.

"Do you have a phone?" I say, and he stops a hand's reach away from me. "Can you call the police?"

"What?" He blinks. "Why?"

"That guy I came in with." I nod at the wall of the diner. "He kidnapped me. I need help."

"Really?" He chuckles, but then, seeing that I'm not smiling, frowns. "What kind of crappy joke is this?"

"Please, you don't have to believe me. Just call the police and let them handle this."

He contemplates me for a moment, then turns his head and calls out: "Margaret!"

"Shhh!" I hiss. "Please, keep it down. He can't know what's happening."

He frowns at me again. A few moments later, there're footsteps, and the waitress walks out. She looks at him questioningly, then notices me.

"What happened, sweety?" she says, looking puzzled. "What're you doing here?"

"He says he's been kidnapped." The man nods at me. "By that guy he came in with."

"Oh, my!" Her hand flies up to her mouth, and she begins to shake her head. "I knew something was wrong. I just knew it! He said it was a date, but you were having such an intense conversation, and you looked so stressed out. Poor baby! What did he do to you?"

"Do you have a phone?" I say, beginning to feel like a broken record. "We need to call the police before he realizes what's happening."

"Of course!" She nods frantically and retrieves her cellphone from the pocket of her apron. "Now, let's go inside. There's a backroom that can be locked. He won't get to you there, don't you worry. Come on, let's go. Harold, lock the door."

She takes my hand and leads me inside. I follow, breathless with the relief of no longer being alone in this. The three of us step into a poorly lit backroom crammed with shelves and boxes. The man—Harold—locks the outside door. Margaret nods approvingly, tapping on her phone.

"It'll be fine in a moment," she whispers to me, and then, into the phone, "yes, please, it's an emergency. I work in a diner, and a client claims he's been kidnapped. Yes, a young man. The man he claims kidnapped him is still here. Yes, a young male, too. Looks like that actor, Barry Becker. Could you send someone quickly?" She pauses to listen. "Sure, the address is..."

I stop listening and turn to Harold. "Can you lock the other door? The one leading to the tables?"

He nods somberly—apparently, Margaret treating this seriously has convinced him, too. He heads to the door on the other side of the room, peeks outside and then shuts and locks it. Then, he turns to me and whispers conspiratorially, "He's still there. Sitting by the table."

I nod, unsure how I feel about that. A part of me wants Aiden to just get out of here before the police arrive. I don't want him to get in trouble—but also, not knowing how far he's prepared to go if things blow up, I don't want other people to get hurt. Could he possibly try to kill them just to prevent me from escaping? There're going to be at least two cops, plus Margaret and Harold—he couldn't possibly take on four people. Could he?

I turn to Margaret who's returning her phone to her pocket. There's worry on her face, but also excitement, the anticipation of a good story she'll be able to tell for the rest of her life. Catching my eye, she switches to the look of compassion.

"You poor baby," she says. "Don't worry. Whatever you've been through, it's over now."